


The Very Eyes of Me

by mydogwatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, First Time, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mutual Pining, Paris 1920s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-03 08:03:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 79,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2843942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is an artist.  John is a novelist.  WWI.  WWII.  The Jazz Age.  They meet and it all happens, just in a different time and place.  But the result is the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Night of Dark Intent

**Author's Note:**

> I said by year's end and here it is. Thank you to all for waiting so patiently for this and I hope you feel it was worth the wait. I love this story and was able to indulge a lot of things I always wanted to write about. Let me know what you think. As usual, it is complete and I hope to post a chapter a day.

Prologue

It looked as if a night of dark intent was coming,  
and not only a night, an age

-Robert Frost

Saturday, 7 September 1940

He should not have been out there at all, of course.

It was foolish and it was ridiculously dangerous, but he found himself not caring in the slightest. Which was undoubtedly more than a bit not good.

It was obvious that no rational person would choose to stand on a rooftop and watch death and destruction fall from the sky onto the city he loved. This place that he had come to love, if only because this was where his life, or the best parts of it anyway, had been lived. Nevertheless, irrational as it might have been, here he was. On the roof, watching the war finally arrive in England.

A fair argument could undoubtedly have been made that this world was no place for a man of reason anyway. Perhaps he should ask Sherlock his thoughts on the subject. Sherlock had thoughts on every subject, of course, and even now, after fifteen years together, John loved listening to him expound. Even a foolish thought [and despite what the genius himself might believe, Sherlock did occasionally have a foolish thought] when uttered in that distinctive voice enthralled John. Sometimes it felt as if he had just met the impossible creature named Sherlock Holmes and every moment they spent together was still one of discovery. Occasionally John thought that as he was lying on his deathbed, whenever that came to pass, he would use his last breath to say to his lover, “No, please, not yet, I still have so much to learn about you.”

There were times John also thought that he might well be slightly mad. In evidence: He was standing on a rooftop watching the bombs fall

Part of why John was standing out on the roof was simple curiosity. He’d always had a curious sort of mind, even as a child, but that natural instinct had been sharpened over the years by his companionship with the world’s most inquisitive man.

He could undoubtedly also claim a legitimate interest in the historical significance of the drama that was taking place in front of his eyes. He was, after all, an author.

Idly, he did wonder why there wasn’t more fear involved. Wouldn’t it be reasonable for him to be afraid?

Maybe his courage [or stupidity?] came from the fact that John Watson had been to war before, back when he was a younger man, although 1915 seemed a very long way from the here and now. And he was a much different man from the eighteen-year-old who had marched into the trenches back then for King and country.

A better man, he rather thought, than that callow youth had been, but perhaps such a judgment was not his to make.

At any rate, it was probably his time on the bloody battlefields of France that kept him from being as frightened as he undoubtedly should have been by what was happening now. As it was, though, he just leant against the brick chimney and watched the huge billowing clouds of black smoke corkscrewing into the into the night sky. Spurts of flame erupted, but he did not move. Even the thud of bombs echoing in the distance did not overly alarm him.

Not to mention that as John stood there observing [yes, Observing, because he could do that, too, and pretty bloody well after so many years] wave after wave of German bombers strike the distant docks, he knew all too well that there were other things to fear. Danger that was much closer to home.

But for the moment, it was infinitely easier to watch the bombardment of London than it was to think about those things. Which undoubtedly said something rather disturbing about his life, but so be it.  
There was also a sense of incongruity about what was happening [although it had long been anticipated] because of what had immediately preceded the attack.

It had been such a beautiful day, with a flawless blue sky, temperatures that were much too warm for the month, and an ironic [in hindsight, at least, which was how he preferred his irony] sense of peace over-laying the city.

Probably that very peacefulness should have been seen as a warning. There had not been a single German recon flight, nor anything else to mar the day. And so no one worried. It was almost as if Londoners wanted to take this day and hold onto it as a shield from what everyone suspected was coming eventually.

Correction: From what now had arrived.

Although, in retrospect, John wondered if perhaps Sherlock had not known all day what was about to happen. His eyes had been rather dark and secretive since the morning. It would be no surprise to learn that his lover had known what lay ahead. Sherlock always knew. Everything.

That afternoon they had joined hordes of others and taken a walk in Regent’s Park, moving slowly, languidly, through the heat, letting their shoulders brush together as often as possible, because that was all they dared to do in public. Their conversation rambled much as they themselves did, moving with the ease of long familiarity over whatever topics took their fancy.

There was only one thing they did not mention even once during the entire walk and that was what would be happening the next day. An unspoken but mutual agreement kept them silent on that subject.

The world was going to change much too soon and they urgently wanted---and needed---this time just for themselves.

Standing now on the roof, John knew that what was taking place in front of his eyes would make no difference at all to what was scheduled to occur on Sunday, except, no doubt, to make it all even more urgent than it had been.

The afternoon had passed much more quickly than should have been possible. After they had walked for some time, all the words dwindled off and, with both their faces moist and flushed from the heat, they returned to the flat. Still without speaking, they carefully, more tenderly than was usual, undressed one another, and then fell, as one, onto the bed.

The lovemaking that followed was touched with a kind of desperation that they had not felt for a very long time. These days their passion was a more familiar thing. It was an emotion that each man wore like a much loved and precious garment. There was heat, still, between them; there were frequent moments of gasping, frantic want and need. But overlaying all of that was the comfort of a security that only came with mature love. John sometimes liked to believe that they would still be the same way at eighty. If they both made it that far. 

Today, however, everything was different. There was no comfortable blanket of familiarity. Instead, it was a bittersweet coming together.

They clutched and licked and petted, whispering rarely uttered endearments, as each man sought to impress the geography of the other’s body yet again into memory.

It was at 16:43, as they dozed, sweat-sheened and cum-sticky, twisted as closely together as two separate bodies could ever be, that the sirens began.

Moaning and stretching, they crawled from their bed, pulling on only their trousers. They had no Anderson shelter, were not inclined to head for the underground station, and did not intend to go into their dank, unpleasant cellar unless it became absolutely necessary. As John filled two tin cups with water and picked up the first aid kit, Sherlock quickly gathered every cushion that could be found in the flat and dumped them into the windowless ground floor loo. Luckily, there was no one else in the building to chastise them for their carelessness.

They burrowed into the soft fortress and waited.

Already the claw-foot tub was stacked with a number of Sherlock’s paintings, carefully wrapped in brown paper and covered with a thick quilt. That was all down to John, because, as usual, Sherlock treated his own work with a certain sense of nonchalance. Mycroft [or one of his interchangeable assistants] would be collecting everything and taking all the paintings someplace safe for the duration. Probably a cave in Wales, knowing Mycroft. John knew that he would miss seeing Sherlock’s work every day on the walls of their home. He would miss so much else besides and that was why he thought it would be better to be off somewhere far away, reporting on the war than sitting here on Baker Street alone.

“We might well get blown into pieces,” Sherlock pointed out almost absently.

“I suppose we might,” John conceded. “But I don’t think so.” He really did not, although there was no logical reason to be so complacent.

Neither of them chose to mention that at least they would be together, no matter what happened. It did not need to be mentioned, of course. Possibly it was only mutual insanity that kept them together. Which was fine; John had accepted that long ago.

As was his habit, Sherlock stretched out so that his head was resting in John’s lap. Only a moment later, steady, calm fingers were moving through his hair as they listened to war strike the city outside. John twisted his fingers into the still-thick dark curls. Here and there, a few stray hairs were just now beginning to show a hint of silver. He never tired of playing with Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock still nuzzled his stomach in appreciation as he did.

“We are absurd,” John whispered.

Sherlock snorted damply into the bare skin of John’s abdomen. “We always have been,” he pointed out.

There was no legitimate opposition that could be mounted to his words, so they just fell silent and listened to the sounds of destruction.

When the all clear finally sounded at 18:10, they went back upstairs to their flat. They donned their shirts again, because there was no guarantee that Mycroft or one of his subordinates would not turn up with some last minute request even in the midst of the chaos overtaking the city. With a smirk that John knew he hoped would disguise the sentiment, Sherlock also put on his favorite waistcoat. It had been a gift from John and was in the pattern and colours---green, blue, black and yellow---of the ancient Watson tartan. Their private joke was that it was in lieu of the gift that could not be given, a ring. In return, John received a tie embroidered with the Holmes family crest, which no one but Mycroft had ever recognised.

Once dressed, Sherlock went to the bedroom wall safe and removed the stack of papers he had secured there before their walk in the park. Then he sat at the kitchen table to once again study the notes, which had arrived early that morning from Whitehall. But his attention was clearly divided, as he also watched his partner move around the room. John efficiently made sandwiches from the roast they’d had for lunch, smearing thick bread with butter and grainy mustard and then layering the slices of meat. He also brewed a pot of tea and set everything on a tray.

They went out onto the flat part of the rooftop and sat in their usual spot for the makeshift picnic, eating as they watched the fires still burning in the distance.

As they ate and watched, Sherlock told John a story he’d never related before, about his first day at boarding school when he was seven years old. The tale made John smile as he thought about the small boy Sherlock must have been; it also broke his heart as Sherlock dispassionately, almost casually, mentioned that it had been the same day he’d heard the word ‘freak’ thrown at him for the first time.

“Wish I’d known you then,” John said.

Sherlock smiled at him in the way he had never smiled at anyone else in the world. “I feel as if you did. As if we have always known one another.” Such sentimental words were rare in their life together these days and that very rareness made them even more valuable. He leaned forward just enough so that their lips met and their tongues touched fleetingly. As he pulled back, they each sighed and set to finishing the meal.

Just before 20:00, Sherlock collected the plates and cups and stood, picking up the tray. He bent down for one more kiss, this one on John’s cheek, and then went inside to pack.

The sirens went again at 20:10, but John did not retreat back into the flat. Instead, he propped himself against the chimney and watched as the East End burned under a new attack.

Sometime later, he felt two wiry arms encircle him tightly.

“You should not be out here,” Sherlock whispered damply into his ear.

“Finished packing?” was all John said in reply.

“Mycroft telephoned just after I went in to say that a car will collect me at nine in the morning.”

John huffed. “Always efficient your brother.” His relationship with Mycroft had never really healed after all that had happened years ago. They were polite, but distant with one another. Truthfully, not really that different from how Sherlock and Mycroft were together.

“Indeed.” Sherlock pulled him even closer.

John memorized the feel of their bodies pressed together, as if he had not already done so countless times. “I hope to hear from Reuters in the next day or so.” He was not really concerned about the response to his suggestion. It did not seem likely that the press organization would turn down the opportunity to have one of England’s most famous writers covering the war for them.

“Still determined to become a correspondent despite your advanced years?” Sherlock teased. Well, he was mostly teasing. 

“We are the same age,” John pointed out wryly. “And so if you can waltz off to be a spy for Mycroft again, I can damned well go cover the war.”

“I’m a war artist,” Sherlock replied. Although they both knew that this time the art was going to be nothing more than a cover for the Frenchman he would become. Then he nipped at John’s earlobe. “You’ll be brilliant. But promise me you’ll be careful.”

John turned around in the embrace. “They rarely hang war correspondents at dawn,” he murmured. “So you bloody well better be the careful one.” He returned the nip, this one on Sherlock’s pale neck. “Tell Paris I said hello.”

Sherlock smirked. “If Paris is indeed my destination, yes, of course I will.”

John almost smiled at the equivocation, but he didn’t. Couldn’t. A war artist would be with the troops, instead of being secretly parachuted into an occupied country. It was definitely a shame that Sherlock spoke French better than many natives; that talent made him perfect for the assignment.

After another few moments, Sherlock finally nudged him back inside. One especially near explosion caused them to grumpily return to the downstairs lavatory. John leant against the side of the tub and stared at Sherlock. “Your curls,” he said at one point.

Sherlock, who was justifiably [in John’s opinion, at least] a bit vain about the curls in question, and who never catered to fashion as regards the length he chose to keep them, sighed. “Sacrificed to the war effort, I fear,” he said.

John only nodded. It was such a small, foolish thing to feel sad about, but there it was.

“I fear that I might have to become a ginger as well,” Sherlock added.

John understood, of course. Despite Sherlock’s best efforts, his public profile had become increasingly large over the years, almost as much for his Byronic looks as for his art, which thoroughly disgusted him, of course.

“I must have a photograph of that,” John teased.

Sherlock only huffed.

 

Later, when the raid had finally ended, they crawled back into their bed, which still rather reeked from their earlier passion. John wrapped himself around Sherlock, entering him with a broken-off sob, and then lost all thought in the familiar tightness and warmth.

Sherlock cried out as he came, calling John’s name with passion limned in pain and fear and, already, loneliness.

John, unusually, made no sound as he released inside Sherlock. Then he dropped onto Sherlock’s chest, still silent.

Surprisingly, Sherlock was soon asleep. Or he seemed to be asleep; John could never quite be sure. As for John himself, he felt wide-awake. He propped himself on one elbow and stared down at the face of the man next to him. He was not one whit less enthralled by the sight than he had been all those years ago, from the very beginning of them.

With that thought, it was natural that Paris came into his mind.

The Left Bank. It was where they began, in the heady days of the 1920’s. But before that time of anomie and expatriation, of passion and danger, of love and grief, there had been a different war.

It might even be argued that their relationship had actually been forged in the aftermath of battle, in an entirely random moment when brown eyes met a silver-green gaze across the turmoil of a military hospital hut set next to a railway line, even though neither of them knew it then or for a long time afterwards.

John buried his nose in Sherlock’s hair and inhaled deeply. Imprinting. Despite appearances, Sherlock was apparently not sleeping quite yet, because he smiled faintly and murmured nonsense words of affection.

Finally, they both slept, two men clinging together desperately, as the past and the present swept over them, leaving Sherlock Holmes and John Watson drifting in time.

**


	2. In Secret Kept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The First World War.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I goofed yesterday and forgot to include the quote which gave me the title for this story, so here it is.
> 
> Thou art my life, my love, my heart  
> The very eyes of me;and hast command  
> of every part,  
> To live and die for thee.  
> -Robert Herrick

The human heart has hidden treasures,  
in secret kept.  
-Charlotte Bronte

 

France, 1916

 

He desperately missed his violin.

Almost from the day of his eighth birthday, when his French grandmother had gifted him with his first child-sized instrument, Sherlock realised that playing the violin, caring for it, merely just touching the warm, rich wood, could serve as a balm to his chaotic mind. To a lonely little boy it was like magic, even before he learned to make music with the instrument.

Also, even at age eight, he was self-aware enough to realise that, as much as he loved playing, Sherlock Holmes would never be a great musician. His true talent lay in a different direction and that was fine, because he also loved facing a blank canvas and envisioning something lovely. And then being able to create it. That act of creation stirred his mind and excited his senses. But it was only the violin and the music he pulled from it that calmed him, bringing a sense of peace.

But the battlefield was no place for a Stradivarius.

An offer had been made to provide a lesser instrument, one that if lost or destroyed by the vagaries of war would not be much missed, but Sherlock rejected that out of hand. He would have his own perfect instrument or he would have none. Mycroft really should have known better.

So, instead of coaxing soothing tunes from a violin, Sherlock tried to settle his mind by organising the colours in his paintbox. He would sit on the narrow camp bed in his hut just behind the reserve lines and let the familiar act serve as a balm. Not as effective as Mozart, certainly, but needs must.

Sherlock was quite aware of the curious sight he presented to others. Surrounded by men in drab brown uniforms, he stood out in his Savile Road suits, white collared shirts, and, most incongruously, his vividly hued waistcoats, which were handmade for him by a excellent, albeit overly verbose, tailor in Jermyn Street. At least, the voluble Italian never questioned his unorthodox colour choices, instead encouraging him to experiment even more widely.

Of course, Sherlock was not a fool and neither was he a madman, despite what was obviously the considered opinion of most of the men around him. He was also rather obsessively protective of his clothing, so on those occasions when he left the rear lines and moved into the trenches to work at the front, he dressed appropriately. Still not in uniform, however. He would don dark corduroy trousers, also made by his tailor, with a black jumper, and tall riding boots rather than his usual bespoke shoes.

The one part of the uniform he did like was the greatcoat and he kept one of those always at hand.

He could have been dressed completely in officer’s garb, of course. Mycroft, the fool, had dangled a captaincy in front of him, as if that would hold any appeal at all or make Sherlock any more amenable to serving King and Country. [“You do know,” his brother had added, “that you would be the youngest captain in the services and I know all too well how you like to be unique.”]

Sherlock had only sneered at him. One had to wonder about Mycroft sometimes.

Finally, primarily because he did not trust that his brother would not conscript him as an infantryman and send him to war anyway, Sherlock had agreed to do the work Mycroft wanted him to do, but only on the strict condition that he would not be not part of the military. “I’m an artist,” he pronounced with a certain amount of pride. “Not a bloody soldier.”

And while that was true, sometimes, honestly, it was hard to tell the difference. He carried a gun, a brand-new Webley Mark VI .455, provided to him personally by Mycroft before anyone else had access to one. He was often cold, wet and dirty, just like everyone else. When he bothered to eat at all, Sherlock ate in the mess with the other men. Not even to mention that he came close to death on a fairly regular basis. Although to be fair, that happened more often when he was off playing Mycroft’s games than when he was anywhere near the trenches.

Officially, he was a war artist, but still a civilian. To his brother and the British government [not quite the same entity. Yet.], he was a covert agent. Privately, in his own mind and heart, he was an artist and nothing else.

And so he spent long evenings organising his paints.

Cadmium Yellow.  
Cadmium Red.  
Permanent Rose.  
Ultra-marine Blue.  
Burnt Umber.

It was very soothing, not like the violin, of course, but acceptable in the circumstances.

Unless, of course, he was interrupted.

Captain Victor Trevor often interrupted him.

He never waited for an invitation the way a true gentleman would have done. Trevor always just pushed the flimsy tin door open and walked in as if he had every right to be there.

“Ahh, Holmes,” he said in the tone of oily bonhomie he adopted whenever talking to Sherlock.

Viridian.  
Venetian Red.

“Playing with your toys again?”

Sherlock gritted his teeth and then slammed the heavy lid of the wooden box down with a crash that echoed in the small room. “What do you want, Trevor?” he asked sharply.

Trevor simply smiled at him. “Always so techy. I was merely seeking out some pleasant company for the evening.”

Sherlock scowled. “You have been misinformed if anyone told you that I would provide such a thing.”

Now Trevor actually laughed aloud, as if he thought the comment had been a clever witticism rather than a simple statement of fact. “Despite your numerous failings, Holmes,” he said cheerfully, “you still provide more entertainment than anyone else in this misbegotten place. And, truthfully, I find you endlessly fascinating.” Trevor had made no secret of that fascination.

Sherlock tried to ignore him. After a moment, he opened his paintbox again and began to make an entirely unnecessary inventory of his brushes.

Rounds.  
Spotters.  
Riggers.  
Wash.

At least Mycroft made sure that he was provided with the best of everything as regarded his art supplies. Sable brushes. Lovely handmade papers. A constant supply of paints and pencils. Sherlock knew full well, of course, that Mycroft took such trouble not out of any concern for the art being made or Sherlock’s pleasure. In reality, it was all simply for the purpose of keeping Sherlock happy, because otherwise Mycroft was afraid his brother might just disappear one dark night.

While Sherlock did not think he could actually be charged as a deserter, since he was a civilian, Mycroft would not want to endanger his own increasingly powerful position in the government. He was, after all, the one who had persuaded the Prime Minister that his brother would be a most efficient operative, despite having just turned eighteen. A shocking age for an agent [Asquith’s words, not Mycroft’s.] Over the past year, Sherlock knew that he had not disappointed. Partly in consequence of that, Mycroft’s star rose ever higher within the lofty corridors of power.

Trevor was still standing there, looking only mildly annoyed at being ignored. He stepped closer to the small table and shuffled through a pile of new sketches, before selecting one of a young soldier huddled in the mud reading a letter from home. “Is he going to die? You can tell, right?”

Sherlock refused to answer or even to acknowledge that a question had been asked.

After a moment, Trevor reached into his pocket. “Brought you a little gift,” he said.

Again, Sherlock tried to pretend as if he hadn’t heard the words, but then a small packet tied with string was dropped on top of his paints. He snatched it up quickly.

Trevor sneered. “Oh, you may snub me, but you certainly like what I bring, don’t you?”

The actual reason Sherlock had picked up the packet so quickly was really not eagerness for its contents, but because he had some ridiculous but nevertheless heartfelt notion that just its vile presence in the box would somehow contaminate his paints, befoul his beautiful colours.

But still.

This was the third time that Trevor had brought him cocaine. “I know you’re bored,” he’d said the first time. “Your brain cannot tolerate boredom. This will help.” He’d also handed over a needle and syringe, with some quick instructions.

Sherlock knew the real reason Trevor was bringing him drugs and it had nothing at all to do with exciting his mind. Like Mycroft with his offerings of art supplies, the captain had far different motives for the gifts that he brought. The truth was that he had ambitions towards the younger man, ambitions that Sherlock would never allow to be fulfilled. But he accepted the cocaine anyway, mostly out of curiosity. And, as Trevor had known, boredom.

So later that very night, all alone in his hut, he had inserted a needle into his arm for the first time. 

And now, weeks later, Sherlock whispered, “I wish you would stop this.”

“Shall I take it back then?” Trevor asked, looking amused. He leaned much too close. “I know what you want more than you do.” His gaze flickered to Sherlock’s mouth. Then he grinned and left.

Sherlock shoved the packet even farther away from himself, hoping that he would not pick it up again later, but knowing that he probably would. He hated Trevor. In actual fact, he hated everyone around him, but that was no new feeling in his life. Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to not hate everyone in the world. On dark nights he occasionally even thought about the improbability of ever actually liking someone. He never had and, save for those nights when his thoughts turned too much inward and far too fanciful, he assumed that he never would. 

Caring was a weakness, as his brother never failed to point out. Still, sometimes, Sherlock toyed with the notion of meeting someone who was not completely unbearable. It seemed unlikely to ever happen, of course. And even if it did, the chances of that person finding him at all bearable in return were even more remote.

On the very blackest of nights, when the possibility of any sleep at all was no more than hypothetical, he wondered just what Mycroft had been thinking when he sent him to this dreadful place.

He really wondered.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Three: A Pattern Called War


	3. A Pattern Called War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John at war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since it is a holiday and these are short chapters, I decided to do two today.

Christ!  
What are patterns for?  
-Amy Lowell

 

It seemed quite absurd to him that anything as dreadful, as terrifying, as soul-destroying as war was could also very frequently devolve into something as mundane, as irritating, and, ironically, equally as soul-destroying as utter boredom. And yet, absurd or not, that was the reality of it.

John Watson had realised that truth very soon after his arrival at the front. It was sometimes quite difficult to understand how quickly everything had changed in his life. One moment, he was sitting in a warm and cozy book-lined study at Cambridge, reading aloud his paper on Symbolism In The Poetry Of Keats, as Dr. MacIntosh puffed on his pipe, listening and, occasionally, commenting in a dry voice. At the time, it all had seemed frightfully important. Especially for a scholarship boy, who never even dared to dream that he would be lucky enough to be in that place.

Then, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, he was so far from Cambridge, sitting in a water-filled ditch somewhere in France, wondering if his toes were actually rotting away or if it just felt that way.

There was probably some important symbolism in there somewhere, but at the moment he couldn’t be bothered to look for it.

What it all came down to, really, was quite simple. One routine [attending lectures, writing essays, debating morality while nursing a pint at The Eagle] had so swiftly been replaced by another [front line, support line, reserve, rest, and then back to the front again] that his head still spun sometimes trying to comprehend it all.

John occasionally found himself caught up in the belief that the rest of his life would be nothing but this same unending cycle of misery, fear, and ennui. There were even days, like this one, when he half-seriously considered the possibility that he’d actually contracted some strange brain disease and fallen insane whilst in Cambridge, and that everything around him now was simply a figment of a fevered and crazed imagination. That actually made a great deal of sense, because how could this circle of hell be his reality?

He remembered a lecture on Absurdity that he’d heard one sunny spring day a century or so ago. Ancient Dr. Bright would no doubt enjoy this example of the theory, because if this situation was not absurd, then nothing was. Perhaps he should write to the good professor and tell him all about it. Dr. Bright had often complimented his intelligence, although that praise was always tempered by the addendum of “Yes, quite bright, for a boy of your unfortunate background.” John could not afford to be offended. After all, growing up with a drunkard father, a sister following the same path, and a weak helpless mother clearly could not be labeled a fortunate way to grow up.

Now, John lifted his pistol and shot another brown rat. That was number seven on the tally he was keeping for the day, trying to break his previous personal record of fifteen. Ironically, the fact that there were so many rodents around on any given day was actually something of a comfort, because it was commonly believed that the creatures could sense when a heavy bombardment was coming. They would then flee the trenches in droves, which was undoubtedly a sign of superior intelligence.

John always wished he could join them in their flight.

He shoved the weapon away again and let his eyes close just briefly. Weariness was another constant companion. Sleep, real sleep, was merely a fondly cherished memory.

A moment later, someone touched his shoulder lightly. John opened his eyes and the other man handed him what passed for a meal most days recently, due to some kind of crisis in transport. War could be very inconvenient sometimes. The meal was meager. One slice of dry bread with a bit of cheese. A second slice of the same bread, this one spread with a tiny amount of jam. Several small pieces of dried fruit. No vegetables today, so there was a gill of lime juice instead.

John smiled a little as he surveyed the meal.

Yes, insanity seemed the most likely explanation for the life he was living.

*

Later that day he was ordered back to the support line.

As evening closed in, he found a dry spot to sit. He opened his coat and took out the diary and pencil tucked safely inside a hidden pocket of his own creation. John was not actually keeping a diary; he was telling a story. The story of his war. It was not the novel he had intended to write when he’d been in Cambridge, but it was the one he had to write now.

He flipped through the pages until he reached the most recent entry. As always, before beginning to work, he reread the last words he’d written.

//I watched a man--- no, a boy really---die today. His name, I think was Frank. Frank Something. Once I heard him talk about the girl he had waiting for him at home. Her name was Annie and she worked as a lady’s maid. At the time, I wondered if she really was waiting. Maybe, in reality, she was being courted by someone else and very soon she would be writing Frank a letter breaking it off. As I watched Frank suffer and die of a sniper’s bullet, I thought that at least he would be spared a broken heart.//

Frank was not real, of course.

But he could have been any number of men---boys---John had watched die. And probably some of them left behind a sweetheart, maybe one named Annie, who was a lady’s maid. 

John chewed on the pencil for a moment [something of a pre-writing ritual now, although he never admitted that, even to himself] and then started scribbling. Hard to believe that he had once won prizes for his penmanship. The other men settling down nearby to rest for a time paid him no attention; they were used to his peculiar habits.

John often wrote instead of sleeping, in part because he could not sleep, but primarily because he needed to get it all down on paper before it was too late. It was really the only thing that mattered to him now.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Four: Dark Night of the Soul


	4. Dark Night of the Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock struggles not to lose himself while he does Mycroft's bidding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are enjoying this. Let me know!

In the real dark night of the soul,  
it is always three o’clock in the  
morning.

-F. Scott Fitzgerald

 

Presently, Sherlock was in his tent a good distance behind the reserve troops. He still wasn’t sure why the request had been passed down the line for him to move back, but assumed it had something to do with Mycroft, which was always a safe assumption. Most things in the world had something to do with Mycroft, it seemed. By now he really was beginning to think of his brother as being the whole of the British government. 

But he’d been here for two days now and still there had been no word about why he had been summoned. So he stayed in his tent, which was more comfortable by far than the one he was quartered in nearer the front, and worked, glad to be out of the mud and the noise. No one had died near him yet and that was also pleasant. He’d even managed a reasonably hot shower, though it had been brief, and then donned his charcoal suit and a pale grey shirt, adding the apricot silk waistcoat. It all made him feel much more like himself at a time when he sometimes seemed to be slipping away.

To fill the time, he was drawing from memory.

He sketched the back garden at the family home. As miserable as he had frequently been inside that house, he had always felt at peace in the garden. He especially loved to watch the bees. What happened, he wondered now, to bees in a war?

His coloured pencils were arranged tidily on the table. He picked up the dark green, holding it loosely as he made broad strokes on the cartridge paper. The colour caught on the peaks of the irregular surface.

Sherlock bent over the table, concentrating so completely on his drawing that he was unaware of someone entering the tent until a faint and irritatingly familiar cough reached his ears. “Mycroft,” he muttered, without looking up.

“Sherlock,” his brother returned.

He worked to finish some cross-hatched shading before putting the pencil down. “About time you showed your face. It seemed important when you summoned me here.”

“Ah, well, you’ve had a nice rest at least.” Mycroft paused for a moment as a frown crossed his lips.

It was only then that Sherlock remembered that in order to work he had taken off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. And Mycroft, who never missed anything, had obviously spotted the faint needle marks on his arm. Languidly, Sherlock rolled down the sleeves again.

Mycroft seemed about to say one thing, but then said another. “I have a little job for you.”

“Like your last ‘little job’? The one that very nearly saw me interned?”

Mycroft seemed irritated by a mention of the recent mission that had gone bollocks up. “That was just…bad luck. Sadly, this job is actually somewhat more hazardous.”

Sherlock realised that he had put the dark green pencil into the wrong place and moved it. “Reassure me, brother, that these increasingly hazardous missions are not just part of some vile plan for you to gain my share of the inheritance.”

“Very droll,” Mycroft replied. “But perhaps you are taking care of that yourself.” He did not quite look directly at Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock’s snorted. As if he were not perfectly capable of managing his cocaine intake. Then he did look directly into his brother’s eyes, something he rarely did. “Perhaps if you spent a little time in the trenches, Mycroft, you would understand.”

They both knew that nothing more would be said on the topic. And they also both knew that Mycroft would not forget. For just a moment, Sherlock was tempted to tell him where the cocaine was coming from. In the circumstance, he imagined, Victor Trevor would very soon find himself on some dangerous mission of his own. It was tempting, because a part of him wanted very much to simply be done with the whole business.

But he still didn’t say anything. He rather wanted to think that his reticence was because he didn’t wish death on anyone, even a man as annoying as Trevor. But he suspected that his real motive was much less humanitarian. At any rate, he could justify it all. Living in hell required some alleviation.

Finally, leaving everything else aside, Mycroft leaned closer and started to talk about what he wanted---needed---Sherlock to do.

Sherlock decided that the hue-based organizing scheme of his coloured pencils wasn’t optimal and started alphabetizing them instead, as he listened to his brother’s voice.

*

Several hours later Sherlock was shoving some belongings into a small canvas knapsack. Only a few things, as ordered. He did not need his evening clothes, Mycroft had said, so at least he knew there would be no hobnobbing with the German elite in a Paris nightclub, as he had on the last assignment. A few rough clothes, a blank sketch book and some pencils, a few watercolours. Stick with your strength, was always what his brother counseled. So he would be a young and impoverished French artist.

The rest of his belongings were already with Mycroft, who had promised to deliver them to him back at the front. So apparently he expected that Sherlock might survive this job.

That was encouraging.

The tent flap lifted again and Trevor strolled in.

Might as well be in the middle of bloody King’s Cross Station.

“Go away,” Sherlock said.

“Be nice, Holmes. I only wanted to visit. Maybe give you---”

“Not tonight, Trevor.”

He looked and noticed the knapsack. “Oh, I see. You’re off on one of your mysterious missions, aren’t you? Dear boy, I’d love to know what you get up to when you disappear.”

Sherlock gave him a feral smile that never came anywhere near his eyes. “And I’d love to tell you, Trevor, but then I’d have to kill you.”

“Which you’d no doubt love as well, I expect.”

Sherlock ignored that.

Trevor only laughed in that donkey bray way he had. “I know that sooner or later you’ll come round, Holmes.”

“You don’t know me at all,” Sherlock snapped.

“But I want to.” Trevor’s voice was low.

Sherlock thought that there was more than one reason Mycroft might enjoy sending this fool on a suicidal mission. He closed the knapsack and gave him another dangerous smile. “And then I’d have to kill you,” he repeated.

Without waiting for a response, he left the tent. A small black car was already waiting for him.

*

Three days later, Sherlock was sitting in a dimly lit bar in a village that was, at least for the moment, under the control of the Germans. He wore a pair of workman’s heavy canvas trousers, cheap and muddy boots, and a frayed black coat. Underneath the coat there was a grimy linen shirt and, incongruously, a sky-blue satin waistcoat. Sherlock justified this bit of indulgence because he was, after all, supposed to be an eccentric Parisian artist and also because he wanted not to forget himself while playing these silly games for Mycroft. So there would be no awkward questions about why he was not serving at the front, he adopted a bad limp and carried a heavy walking stick, which could also serve as a quite efficient weapon, if it came to that.

Thus far, it had not come to that. He had met once with some painfully inept locals. [So this was the sort of people Mycroft was forced to work with? No wonder he was constantly begging for help.] The rest of the time, he merely walked through the village, sketching whatever caught his fancy and taking every opportunity to chat with the locals. It was almost as if there were no war at all and he was on holiday. Well, except for the chatting with the locals, of course. On holiday, he never did that.

But they had paid off, all those boring conversations. By now, he had a very good idea of just whom it was he needed to find. Not his name, of course, but the sort of man he would inevitably turn out to be.

Sitting in the bar and listening to the patrons gossip with one another only served to reinforce his suspicions. Like peasants everywhere, they talked a lot and most of it was nonsense, but he was able to filter out all the useless noise and keep what was important.

All conversation ceased, of course, when any Germans came in.

But while Sherlock had been viewed with suspicion for the first two days, by this time he was apparently considered a regular. He sat over a single, rather dreadful glass of wine that he was convinced had been produced in the landlord’s not-terribly-clean bathtub, but there was, after all, a war on so allowances had to be made, apparently. Personally, he thought that an over-used and rather poor excuse for falling standards.

But he was not here to criticise. Instead, he just sat at a tiny table in the corner and sketched. The other patrons were impressed to have an artiste within their midst and seemed respectful of his efforts, so they mostly left him alone.

Sherlock knew his target as soon as the man walked in. 

On the surface, the newcomer was just another tradesman or black market profiteer coming in for a glass of beer or perhaps something stronger. But a look beyond the obvious told Sherlock all he needed to know.

His clues came in the stony eyes, the set of the shoulders, even in the brusque way he ordered his drink. Not to mention his left thumb. Idly, Sherlock just kept drawing, doing a study of the young woman who was helping behind the bar. She was pretty enough, Sherlock supposed, in the same tawdry way a Piccadilly whore was attractive, lived with her widowed mother, and was pregnant, although no one else knew that yet. Hopefully they would not find out that the father was a German.

When the Boche officer came in twenty minutes later, everyone pretended not to notice, most especially the man Sherlock was watching. In fact, he pretended not to notice so bloody hard that it was almost funny. Apparently, the Germans had no better luck than Mycroft did in finding satisfactory agents. Sherlock wondered, not for the first time, if his brother appreciated him enough. It seemed unlikely.

The officer took a table near to where the man was sitting and after a sip of the truly execrable wine, which caused him to grimace, he leaned over slightly. In dreadfully accented French, he asked, “Excuse me, please, but are you finished with the newspaper?”

The Frenchman made a brief [and entirely transparent] show of resistance, but then only nodded and handed over the paper, glancing around at the other patrons, as if to let them know he had no choice, they could see that, couldn’t they? The stupidity on display made Sherlock want to scream.

“Thank you,” said the German. He then pretended to read the front page. The information he was seeking would be buried on the inside, of course. Sadly, for him, this particular military secret would prove to be completely untrue and useless.

Soon after, Sherlock finished the sketch he was working on and carelessly put his initials in the lower right-hand corner. Here and now, of course the S.H. stood for Stefan Hule. He gave the traitor a two-minute head start before following him out.

How cliché, Sherlock thought as they headed into a shadowed alleyway behind the local whorehouse. Flimsy bits of lingerie that had been hung in the windows to dry fluttered in the breeze. Sherlock swore under his breath, although there was no one to notice. His life had become ridiculous and there was only his brother to blame.

The fact that the man he was following not only had a thin and very sharp knife, but was apparently very good at using it was, admittedly, all a bit unsettling, but with one good swing of the sturdy walking stick, Sherlock was able to take him down. Unfortunately, in the process, he did suffer a narrow cut that ran the length of his torso.

By the time he had bound the unconscious man with his own cheap tie and shoved him behind a small bicycle shed, there was already blood soaking through Sherlock’s shirt. He took a moment to rip off the jacket and then more carefully removed the still unstained waistcoat, of which he was fond, and shoved it into his knapsack. The slash could be mended. Blood was more difficult. 

Finally, he made his way back to the bar, claiming that a thief had attacked him. The girl tut-tutted extravagantly, then washed and bandaged his injury. He rewarded her with the sketch he’d made earlier and she kissed his cheek. He waited until she had turned away swipe at the damp patch left by her tongue. Before leaving, he scribbled a note, put it into an envelope, and asked her to give it to his friend, Monsieur Roget, when he came in. The local agents could collect the traitor themselves. His job was done. It had not been nearly as dangerous or interesting as Mycroft had implied. Sometimes he thought his brother played up the theoretical danger just to keep him interested. Had the first operative they’d sent in really gotten his throat slit? If so, he must have been a complete idiot.

Several hours later, Sherlock had made his way to the rendezvous point and was impatiently waiting for the promised transportation. His side was throbbing and although he didn’t want to, he found himself thinking of the packet of white powder hidden amongst his things back at the camp.

When the car finally arrived it was nearly 03:00. Sherlock climbed into the back seat without a word to the driver, closed his eyes, and pretended to sleep all the way back to the war.

Sometimes Sherlock thought that he might never really sleep again.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Five: Falls the Shadow


	5. Falls the Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's war ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It occurs that I have not yet mentioned that, sadly, I do not own Sherlock and John. If I did, season three would have gone so much differently!

Between the idea and the reality.  
Between the motion and the act  
Falls the Shadow.

-T.S. Eliot

 

These days, John was quite used to being ignored by most of those around him. Not that he was a solitary man by nature; far from it, in fact. More than once the word ‘gregarious’ had appeared on his school reports, although it had not necessarily always been intended as praise. In those halcyon days, John Watson had been a popular fellow, a skilled rugby player despite his slight form, and never one to turn down the offer of a secret smoke behind the boathouse.

Some of his outgoing nature had been merely a practical strategy. He was always the shortest in his year, thin, bright and rather dreamy. Not to mention he was only present through the sufferance or generosity of others. Put simply, John Watson was born to be bullied and chivied. So in self-defence, he set out to be everyone’s chum. He played rugby and suffered the inevitable bruises. He joked and joined in on pranks against the housemaster.

Occasionally he grew weary of the façade, but he was a sensible sort of boy and knew what had to be done to get along.

War, however, was not the place for friendship, at least not for him. In part, that was because he did not care again to become close to someone and then have to watch that person die in front of his eyes.

But even beyond that plain fact, whenever John had a few moments of quiet, his choice was to spend them scribbling in his leather-bound diary, adding more words to his novel. Sometimes he felt that his desire to finish the blasted thing was all that kept him going. 

Given his usual state of solitude, it was something of a surprise when someone dropped down next to him as he wrote. At the same time, he was trying to chew and swallow the dry bread and rather damp cheese that apparently constituted dinner.

“Hello,” the stranger said. 

His cheerful tone rather grated, so John simply gave him a quick glance and a grunt.

None of which seemed to dismay him at all. “Sorry to interrupt. But you’re John Watson, right? I’ve been told that you are writing a novel.”

John frowned. “And that is your business, is it?”

Rather than taking offence at his frankly rude tone, the other man laughed. “Actually, yes. Quite literally.” He held out a slightly pudgy hand. “Michael Stamford. Before this---” he gestured at their dismal surroundings. “---manifestation of Hades interrupted me, I worked in publishing in London. Hope to do so again one day soon.”

“Really?” John stopped writing and looked more closely at him. The cheeriness of his greeting was actually reflected in his eyes and John wondered how long Stamford had been here.

Stamford was still smiling and John decided that jolliness was the man’s natural state. If he could maintain that attitude in a place such as this then his good humour was indelible. Or he was an idiot.

Stamford settled himself more comfortably against the wooden plank that served as a wall. “So, Watson. You are an author.”

“Well,” he said.

Stamford ignored the equivocation. “It is my opinion that once this mess is over, which it must be one day, mustn’t it, there will be a demand for books about the whole catastrophe. Especially when the stories within those books are being told by men who were actually here. Who saw it all happen first hand. Of course, until I have read your work, I can make no firm promise, but if it is any good, I might be willing to represent you to the publishers.”

John’s fingers tightened around the rather battered diary. The thought of anyone else reading his words was a bit unsettling, but why else was he writing page after page? “I think it’s good,” he said softly. It was actually the first time he’d allowed himself to say that aloud.

Stamford just looked at him for a long moment and there was an unexpected perceptiveness in the gaze. Not an idiot, then, just jolly. Finally, he nodded. “I shall look forward to reading your work,” he said, taking a small calling card from a pocket. They might have been standing on Charing Cross Road. “Once we are all back in London, look me up.”

“I will,” John said, meaning it. He tucked the card into the diary.

They shook again and then Stamford grinned before walking away.

John wondered if such a happy fellow stood any chance at all of surviving this war.

*

John hated the artillery barrages, even as he understood their purpose, which was to kill as many German defenders as possible and at the same time, hopefully, shred the damnable barbed wire before they had to charge into it. But the noise was quite nearly unbearable. One day a newcomer, younger even than John himself, went a bit mad during the barrage and tried to kill himself with his own bayonet. It had been hard to watch while listening to his wretched sobs.

Of course, the incident made for an excellent chapter in the novel.

John wondered if something were very wrong with him that he could actually take such a tragedy and turn it to his own use. Then an especially loud shell made him forget all of that and press himself more tightly into the mud.

He never prayed in the moments before they went over the top. Many of the men around him were mumbling words that he assumed were intended for the ears of their god. Or maybe Jesus. The fact that they could find themselves here, preparing to launch their bodies towards death [on the orders of a man who not so long ago had been a successful solicitor handling divorces amongst the upper crust] and still believe that a merciful deity cared at all amused and depressed him in equal portions.

He had his own way to keep himself from spinning off into sheer terror at such times and that was to mentally recite vaguely remembered Latin phrases.

Crede quod habes, et habes.

Another loud explosion made him duck his head.

Aut viam inveniam aut faciam.

He cleared his throat and spit.

Adde parvum parvo magnus acervus erit.

He found himself hoping that the publishing fellow Stamford would come through all right. Not only because of the book, John was pleased to realise, but because he really did seem a good sort.

Non omnis moria.

An endless time later, the word was passed down the line and John, along with the still-praying men next to him, scrabbled out of the trench and moved sloppily across the soggy ground of no man’s land. Just short of a kilometer to go.

But he never quite made it to the barbed wire.

Just as he shifted his rifle to grip it more tightly, the world exploded around him and his shoulder seemed to catch fire. He dropped to his knees, feeling the weapon fall from his suddenly useless fingers, and then he toppled over completely. As consciousness slipped away, John was vaguely aware of men running past him, a few of them accidentally stepping on him as they went.

He didn’t care.

 

John had no idea how much time passed before he felt his body being lifted onto a stretcher. He was bounced and jostled as two men carried him away, not stopping until they reached the Dressing Station. He’d been there before, because of his feet, but now it seemed a rather useless journey.

At some point, he felt salt water being poured over the wound and the pain made him scream just a bit.

“We don’t want you getting an infection,” a quiet voice said in his ear.

He still didn’t care.

*

It was getting dark by the time he was loaded onto a horse-drawn wagon with several other men. That same voice spoke again. “You’re going to the Casualty Clearing Station. Looks like you might have a Blighty wound.” That was said as if it were good news.

John wondered if he was supposed to care.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Six: My Heart is Consumed in Fire


	6. My Heart is Consumed in Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A not-quite meeting amid war and death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting. Because the next chapter is short, I will post it today as well.

This night of no moon  
There is no way to meet him.  
I rise in longing---  
My heart is consumed in fire.

-Ono No Komachi

 

Sometimes Sherlock simply had to escape.

There were times when he almost feared that his very sanity was in danger of vanishing. Mycroft appeared ever more frequently, requesting that he take on one assignment or another. Very occasionally, he would refuse, but whenever he did that, there would be repercussions. The last time Sherlock had said no, his precious supply box vanished. It only reappeared two horrible days later when he’d consented to make a ridiculously dangerous journey to Berlin, of all places. Luckily, his German was as brilliant as his French. But he was tired. At one point, he demanded that Mycroft stop treating him like a child and taking away his favorite toys to punish him.

At that, Mycroft had only given him a smirk. “Then stop acting like a child, Sherlock. You seem to imagine that when I come to you it is on some kind of whim.” His expression hardened. “None of this is a game.”

Sherlock sat on the narrow camp bed. “Oh, please,” he huffed. “I can just see you sitting in your Whitehall lair, moving the rest of us around like chess pieces. And it’s not just you. This war is a match being played out by government mandarins on both sides. Everybody else is just cannon fodder.”

In the end, of course, he had taken on the trip to Berlin, primarily out of boredom.

During their conversations now, Sherlock was careful to always keep his arms covered.

Unbelievably, Mycroft and his Machiavellian schemes were not even the worst of it. The odious attentions of Victor Trevor were becoming increasingly annoying. The ridiculous man was no longer even being subtle about what he wanted. Sherlock could not have been less interested. His few experiments in that area whilst he’d been at school had proved to be monumentally tedious and there was no need nor any desire to repeat the experience. 

Trevor was not deterred. “If you were really not interested,” he’d murmured the previous day, “you could simply report me. We both know what the repercussions of that would be for me.”

“I should do,” Sherlock muttered in return, trying to concentrate on the canvas he was close to finishing. It was a study in greys and browns, depicting three young men huddled in a trench. He’d known even as the image had appeared in his sketchbook that two of the men would be dead by the next day.

“But you won’t,” Trevor replied. “And we both know as well why you will not report me.” He set another packet on the table. “You are a very expensive obsession, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Then go away and stop your absurd obsessing.”

Trevor smiled. It was not a pleasant expression. “I could do, of course. But then you would simply have to come find me, wouldn’t you, because you can no longer get by without my little gifts.” He moved even closer.

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried not to inhale the sour smell of Trevor’s unwashed body. He fervently wished that he had the courage to simply push Trevor away, push him out of the tent, out of his life.

But already his hands trembled slightly with need and so he did nothing. And hated himself.

*

So, occasionally, he had to escape.

This night he failed to locate any available motor-driven vehicle, so he begged a ride on a supply wagon and just stayed tucked in the back until the horses pulled into their final destination, a Casualty Clearing camp next to the train tracks.

It was an overcast, dark night, so the camp was illuminated by a number of lanterns. Sometimes it seemed as if this war, despite the sophisticated weaponry and chemicals being employed, was actually being fought in the nineteenth century rather than the twentieth.

No one paid him much attention as he wandered about with his pad and pencils, making hasty, incomplete sketches of the activity going on around him. Apparently a train was expected any moment; it would take the most seriously injured men to the nearest port where they would board a ship for England. Their war was over.

They were the lucky ones.

Except, of course, for the poor bastards who were going to die anyway.

Sherlock found a wooden stool shoved into a corner and perched there as he drew.

With the first few sketches done, he surveyed the room again. A stretcher had been set down nearby and his gaze paused on the man lying there, his eyes closed. A bloody bandage covered part of his chest and shoulder. Automatically, Sherlock began to draw, already imagining the colours he would mix to recreate the dusty brown-blond hair.

Abruptly the injured man opened his eyes and Sherlock found himself staring directly into an unexpectedly warm, brown gaze. His breath caught and his hand stilled.

Neither of them looked away as the seconds ticked by and Sherlock barely noticed the arrival of the train.

If asked, Sherlock could not have said why this man, so very ordinary in appearance, who was simply another victim of this damnable war, should have captured his attention. He wanted to stand, get closer, say something, although he had no idea what words might have come out of his mouth. Almost without knowing he was doing so, Sherlock got to his feet.

Their eyes were still locked.

As he moved closer, Sherlock barely realised that he had started drawing again, without even looking at the paper. He wanted to tell this soldier not to worry, that he was going to live. It would be bad, but he was going survive.

He wanted to tell him…well, it was quite ridiculous the things he wanted to tell this stranger. Who did not feel in the slightest like a stranger. Who felt somehow important. Who seemed crucial, even, and how absurd was that?

But before he reached the man’s side, before he could say anything at all, others moved between them, lifting the stretcher and moving towards the waiting train.

Foolishly, Sherlock lifted a hand in---what? Farewell?

Somehow the wounded soldier managed to raise his hand just a little in return, only for a moment, and then he seemed to lose consciousness again. Sherlock continued to follow as the stretcher reached the train and was then shoved into a carriage with a dozen others. The door grated loudly as it was pulled closed.

After staring at the latched door for a long moment, Sherlock made his way back to the stool and dropped onto it. There was no explanation he could come up with as to why his heart was beating so rapidly. Or for why there was a sudden and vast emptiness in his gut.

Almost desperately, he fingered the packet of white powder in his pocket. Then he looked down at the unfinished sketch and began to draw again, needing to get it all down on paper before he forgot.

Although a part of him already knew that he would never be able to forget a single detail. No matter how hard he tried.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Seven: In Thy Shadow


	7. In Thy Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson's hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, a second offering.

Go from me.  
Yet I feel that I shall stand  
henceforeward in thy shadow.

-Elizabeth Barrett Browning

 

Even the members of the crew who made the trip regularly said that this particular crossing was one of the worst they’d had. The weather turned soon after launch and it seemed as if what the Boche weaponry couldn’t quite finish, a raging storm and the Channel just might.

The former Cunard passenger liner, now wearing white paint and red crosses on its sides, was tossed about as if it were nothing more than a toy vessel sharing a bathtub with an especially unruly child.

John passed in and out of awareness as he had been doing since the hasty surgery on his shoulder. By now, he was wondering if he’d actually died on the table and this was the journey to hell. Or maybe it was hell itself and he would be stuck forever in this stinking, roiling place.

All around him, men cried in pain and fear, sobbed out the incoherent names of loved ones, and still sent prayers to the same deity that had so far failed to keep them safe. They bled and they vomited and they pissed. The nurses moved amongst the stretchers, offering what comfort they could, as the doctor made liberal use of the morphine. More than once the nurses lost their footing and ended up toppling onto the patients they were trying to help.

John was so lost in pain and pure misery that he stopped paying any attention to what was going on all around him. At one point he vomited as well, the force of it making his whole chest throb with a burning pain. Finally, he lay back down and closed his eyes tightly, forcing his mind to go somewhere else.

Immediately, where his mind went was right back to the Casualty Clearing Camp and a pair of verdigris eyes shot through with silver lights boring into his own gaze. Even in his drug-and-pain addled mind he’d been aware of more---knife-edged cheekbones, a very unmilitary cascade of dark curls, pale skin that seemed almost to glow even in the dimly-lit hut. But what he remembered most were those eyes.

And that long moment of unsettling connection.

He was positive they had not met before. That face would be impossible to forget. So just what had happened between them?

John kept his eyes closed now, imagining what might have occurred if he had not been so quickly shuttled onto the train carriage and taken away into the night. Might they have spoken? What would the stranger have said? Even as he had that thought, John realised that the appellation was wrong. It was not the random, albeit inquisitive, stare of some unknown man that had so captivated him. It was something different. Something new.

He’d felt…known. Or perhaps recognised was closer to the truth. As if, when those extraordinary eyes settled on him, the man behind the gaze had said, “Yes, hello, you’ve been a long time getting here.”

Or maybe those were just the words he himself had wanted to say in that moment.

The morphine and his complete exhaustion were combining to drag him into the darkness. As he drifted off, a whimsical thought struck John Watson. As if this were a time for whimsy. Well, all things considered, perhaps it was.

So: Maybe it was an angel he’d seen.

John was not a religious man, despite his C of E upbringing, and certainly nothing that had happened on the battlefield had changed his mind about that. But just for now, in this miserable time and place and circumstance, he decided to believe. Not in god, of course, but in a green-eyed angel who was watching over him.

He almost smiled at the thought and then, finally, he slept.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Eight: An Everlasting Night


	8. An Everlasting Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The war is long over. Sherlock's battle continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So appreciate the comments and hope you all continue to enjoy this story.

And to ‘scape stormy days,  
I choose an everlasting night.  
-John Donne

 

London: 1925

 

Sir Horace St. John was an unpleasantly over-weight man with piggy little eyes, the slightly reddened nose of a secret drinker, and a reputation for being an upstanding citizen of the realm and stalwart of the Conservative Party. Apparently this paragon had decided that the world was lacking a portrait of his pompous self and that said shortage needed to be addressed, no matter the cost.

It would not be cheap. Sherlock had no set rate for his work. Price usually simply came down to his mood on any given day or, more often, upon how much he disliked the prospective client. More than once he named a fee that was so high he was sure the other person would call him a foul name and storm out of the studio.

No one ever had.

Sherlock stepped back from the easel to stare again at his subject. While it was probably not socially acceptable, he didn’t even try to restrain his smirk. Not that St. John noticed.

Sherlock was quite aware that in addition to all of his other fine qualities, it seemed that Sir Horace was also a cross-dresser with two mistresses.

A cross-dresser with two mistresses who, despite all of those facts, nevertheless foolishly made the decision to have his official portrait done by the most sought-after painter in London. Still sought-after, even though people were slowly beginning to realise that if one had secrets [and everybody had secrets] it was a risky choice to ask Sherlock Holmes to commit you to canvas. He did not simply paint. Sherlock Holmes deduced the reality of the sitter and then put it on canvas.

Oh, the portrait would always be brilliant, because Holmes was widely acknowledged to be the best of his generation. But frequently the painting would reveal much more than the sitter expected. Or wanted. Beyond the surface image, Sherlock managed to illuminate the real person. Sometimes, of course, reality was too much. At least two divorces and one suicide had resulted from some of his recent work.

None of which bothered Sherlock at all, of course. If people were idiotic enough to put themselves in his studio then they lost any right to complain about the result.

He looked again from Sir Horace back to the portrait. Although the politician was dressed in a morning suit, looking every inch the man he wanted the world to believe that he was, the astute viewer would see much more.

Luckily for Sir Horace, there were very few astute viewers in the world.

If one did happen along, he would see that this was a man with secrets and an even closer look might even reveal that beneath the surface was a man who liked to indulge some unusual activities.

Perhaps something like…donning women’s undergarments.

Sherlock smiled at his subject, who was foolish enough to smile back, genially.

Every single day Sherlock was offered irrefutable evidence that the world  
was indeed populated by idiots. He had long ago given up any hope that one day he might meet someone who didn’t annoy him beyond belief. Having accepted that reality made his solitude easier to bear. Somewhat. 

Most days he convinced himself that he preferred being alone.

He turned his attention back to the palette.

*

The studio was dark now, its only illumination coming from the rather ancient streetlamp just outside the window. Sherlock had changed from his painting clothing into a pair of grey soft flannel trousers, a white shirt, and a plum-coloured waistcoat. Primarily out of laziness, he had not donned socks or shoes.

Slumped in his comfortable chair, he had just lighted a cigarette when the studio door opened. Only one other person had a key and even that was not because he had been given one. “Go away, Mycroft,” he said without even glancing towards the doorway. The words sometimes felt like the motif of his entire life. “I’ve had a hard day’s work and I am definitely not in the mood to look at your face.”

“You have my sympathies,” Mycroft said with no sympathy at all in his voice. He peered at the nearly completed portrait. “Oh, my. You are being rather obvious there, aren’t you? Sir Horace will not be best pleased.”

“As usual, Sir Horace has paid my outrageous fee in advance, so how he feels about it is of no concern to me at all.” Sherlock wriggled his long toes.

He did not add, because it was not necessary, that very few people in the world, other than Mycroft, would be able to pick up on the truths being told in the painting so quickly, if at all. Instead, he inhaled deeply and blew the smoke towards his brother. “Thank you so much for visiting, Mycroft, I’ve enjoyed it no end. What a shame that you must now scurry back to continue running the country.”

Instead of taking the hint and leaving, as any normal person would have done, Mycroft just leaned on his brolly and stared at him. “I worry about you, brother. One would have thought that the vices of your youth would have been given up by now.” Mycroft frowned. “Especially those that are now quite illegal in this country.” 

“Pah,” Sherlock said. “If they start enforcing that particular law half the gentry and their off-spring will be in gaol. Really, Mycroft, you already bear the burdens of empire on your shoulders. My little indulgences should not concern you at all. As always, I am in control.”

“Not always,” Mycroft pointed out.

Sherlock scowled. He did not like being reminded of that night. It had not been his fault, after all. A simple miscalculation and it was rather rude of Mycroft to even bring it up. He’d only been in the private clinic for three days.

There was a pause in their conversation.

Mycroft sighed, indicating that he was ready to move on to the actual reason for his visit. Usually there was more behind his appearances than merely annoying his brother. “I know, Sherlock, that you take no interest at all in the affairs of the world.”

“Never mind. You take more than enough interest for the both of us,” Sherlock pointed out.

“ That is the curse of being me, brother mine.” Mycroft lifted his ubiquitous brolly and stared at the tip for a moment. “There are troubles brewing in several parts of the world. Serious troubles.”

Sherlock gave a lazy look around the room. “Well, none of those troubles are in my studio, so I have absolutely no interest.”

“In ten years, maybe fifteen at the outside, we will be at war again.”

“Then I would say you are doing your job rather badly.” Then Sherlock squinted at him. “Or rather well, I suppose, depending on what your actual goal is.”

Mycroft straightened. “I have it in mind to gift you with a tour of the continent.”

“Huh. Well, sadly, I can imagine what you have in your mind, Mycroft. I am not interested.”

“You’re bored, Sherlock.”

“I’m always bored. But, please, leave it to me to decide how to alleviate my boredom.”

“With a needle?”

Sherlock decided that the conversation had gone on quite long enough, so he ignored Mycroft, reaching for his socks and shoes. There had to be something more interesting to do tonight than sit here and listen to his brother lecture him.

After a moment, Mycroft walked to the door and then paused. “Think about this, Sherlock. You were very good at what you did during the war. And all of your complaints aside, I know that you enjoyed it.” When there was no reply, he left, closing the door quietly.

Sherlock sat still, one sock dangling from his fingers. Suddenly the thought of going out was no longer appealing. Instead, he just curled into the chair and stared at the stack of canvases in one corner.

For tonight at least, he would stay in.

*

The same boring crowd as always was in the club when Sherlock arrived, so the usual high volume of slightly desperate gaiety was in full swing. Also as usual, Sherlock passed through the crowd without directly acknowledging anyone, although several people tried to greet him, and went straight to the small snug bar in the back. His nerves were stretched tight and the throbbing behind his forehead had been growing worse all day.

It had been a long fortnight since Mycroft’s last visit.

The St. John portrait had been completed and delivered to the client. True to Mycroft’s prediction, Sir Horace had been less than delighted, although it was obvious that he could not put his finger on why he wasn’t happy. But when his wife [or perhaps one of his mistresses, Sherlock neither knew nor cared] went into shrill raptures of how ‘distinguished’ he looked, the pompous fool set aside his [justifiable] misgivings and decided the portrait would hang in his office. On further thought, Sherlock decided, it was obviously a mistress. No wife would have laid the flattery on so thickly.

Mycroft, although he had not come to the studio, continued to hover, becoming more annoying with every day.

A sudden burst of too-loud laughter from the front bar startled him and he swallowed the absinthe too quickly. He choked a bit and coughed.

“Oh, Holmes, you must learn to temper your vices. How humiliating it would be to meet your end by choking to death on the green fairy.”

Sherlock grimaced just slightly before turning to face Sebastian Wilkes. It was still not entirely clear to him whether his encounter with Wilkes six months ago, on a bench in Hyde Park of all places, had been lucky or disastrous.

On that day, it had taken only a few moments for Sherlock to deduce that Wilkes had decided to use his Cambridge education not only for his respectable career in the family bank, but to manage several much more discreet businesses on the side. The only one of his enterprises that interested Sherlock at all was the one dealing in the procuring and distribution of certain illegal substances.

Whether one considered the meeting a stroke of luck or a something of a disaster, it was at least convenient. And much easier than haunting the distinctly less than salubrious dark alleys of the East End in search of what one wanted. Sadly, having that convenience also meant putting up with Sebastian Wilkes and his deadly dull conversations.

Still, Sherlock like to look on the bright side of things [well, not really, but sometimes it was the only thing that kept him from violence] and at least Wilkes, unlike the odious Trevor during the war, had no designs on his body. Sebastian only wanted his brain. The plan was that Sherlock would help him run his myriad of commercial enterprises.

Frankly, Sherlock felt almost more put off by the notion of his mind being put to that pedestrian use than he’d been by Trevor’s sexual entreaties.

“Hello, Wilkes,” he said finally.

Wilkes sat on the barstool next to him. “Hello. It wasn’t terribly convenient, but I got your message and so here I am.”

“How kind,” Sherlock said dryly. “Do you have my package?”

“Of course. But what’s wrong with a little social intercourse first?”

Sherlock sipped the absinthe, more slowly this time.

Wilkes ordered himself a whiskey and looked to be settling in for a while. “I was thinking of you earlier today, in fact. Of our time at university before the war. Did you know how much we all hated you back then?”

Sherlock was staring at the old timepiece that hung over the bar. An early Victorian railway clock, he decided. “I never gave it any thought,” he said.

“Well, it made sense, right? How much we despised you. I mean, no chap wants to come down for breakfast and have you announce that he’d been shagging a whore the night before. You could never keep your mouth shut.”

At the moment, Sherlock kept his mouth very firmly closed. The whole conversation was so boring that he tried to think of something else. Anything else.

“Freaky Holmes. That’s what we called you.”

“How original. Except, of course, for the fact that the boys at boarding school got there first.”

“Ralston and a few others always reckoned you were a virgin and just envious of them.”

“Ralston had syphilis, hardly something to be envious of,” Sherlock snapped.

“He did? Really?” Wilkes chuckled and abruptly changed the subject. “You have the money?”

“Don’t I always?” Sherlock slipped him the folded notes and received the small packet in return. He tucked it into his pocket immediately. “Thank you, Wilkes,” he said flatly. “I’m sure you’re very busy, so don’t feel in the least obliged to linger.”

Wilkes just sipped his drink placidly. “Have you considered my latest proposition? I thought that since it involves art you might be interested.”

Sherlock barely avoided gaping at him. “Because I am a painter you thought smuggling antiquities out of China would prove interesting to me? How does your tiny little mind work?” He finished his drink. “I have given that ridiculous notion the same consideration as all of your other ideas. Which is to say, none at all.”

Abruptly, Wilkes leaned closer, much too close. “You know, Sherlock, our history not withstanding, one of these days I might get tired of your arrogance and take my goods elsewhere to sell. There is no shortage of buyers, after all.”

“Do as you like.” More of the absinthe had been poured and Sherlock tasted it. “One of these days I might decide to actually tell my brother the truth when he asks me where I obtain my drugs. He would not be pleased. Mycroft takes such an interest in my well-being.”

It was their usual standoff.

After a moment, Wilkes just gave a disdainful snort and took his drink with him to the front bar.

Sherlock was alone again.

He took small, careful swallows of his drink and thought about something else.

*

Sherlock first began walking the dark streets of London when he was ten years old. Whenever he was home from school, he would sneak out of the house, a ridiculously easy escape to make, because no one was really paying attention. His parents were rarely home and paid help was only so diligent, after all. If Mycroft happened to be at home as well, which happened increasingly less often, somewhat more stealth was required.

Once away from the house, he would simply wander the streets and alleyways and mews of London, learning them all by name, absorbing the very soul of the city, making it a part of his essential being.

Admittedly, those walks were not without the occasional incident. More than once, he was grateful for his ridiculously long legs and practised running skills. Flight didn’t always work, of course, and occasionally he suffered some bruises and scrapes.

Most inconveniently, the night he came in with blood streaming from his nose and his eye already swelling and turning several unnatural colours happened to be the very night Mycroft was sitting in the upstairs hall, waiting for him.

After that, he only went out on those nights when Mycroft was not at home. [Paid help was still only so diligent, after all, even after being warned.]

Even now, he still walked the streets at night, a solitary figure wrapped in his greatcoat, a bespoke adaptation of the officer’s coat he had loved during the war, haunting London like a shadow.

This particular night, after slightly too much absinthe and the always tiresome company of Sebastian Wilkes, he found himself walking along the Thames, head bent, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. On his nocturnal wanderings, he was closely observing the city, taking careful mental note of everything he saw and then organising all the data in his mind palace. None of it served any real purpose, he understood, because he could paint just as well without knowing how many steps it took to cross Tower Bridge or where the whores in Soho gathered after working hours for a cuppa and bacon sarnie.

None of it was essential.

Except to him, of course, because his mind had to be kept busy or he might just implode.

Growing slightly weary, he paused in the middle of the bridge and leaned against the parapet, staring down at the dark, flowing water below. Sometimes, as at this moment, Sherlock found himself filled with a sense of yearning that he recognised, but could not explain. As if he were missing something, something important, without even knowing what it was.

Sherlock was not a stupid man; he recognized his own brilliance, so he knew very well that whatever it was he yearned for would not be found in the bottom of the absinthe bottle or at the point of a needle. But, honestly, he did not know what else to do.

The art helped most, of course. His violin helped. And even the alcohol and cocaine helped, at least fleetingly.

But nothing really ever stopped the yearning.

Looking at the water so far below, Sherlock wondered if perhaps the only thing that would really fix him was oblivion.

He shivered a little at that thought, because he really did not want to die, at least without knowing what it was his life was missing. After a time, he gathered his coat around him more tightly, and turned to walk back to his studio.

Once there, in the tiny bedroom, he would take out the needle and Wilkes’ white powder. Maybe this night would be the one the drug could make the pain go away. Probably he would paint, then. And sometime before dawn, he might sleep. He might have the dream again, the dream of two gentle eyes watching him, seeing him, knowing him.

Sherlock liked that dream.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Nine: In The Widening Gyre


	9. In the Widening Gyre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is ready to move on from his war, but he doesn't know where he wants to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think everything I have to say today is in the chapter.

Turning and turning in the  
widening gyre,  
Things fall apart, the center  
cannot hold.

-W.B. Yeats

 

John made the decision, while getting dressed, that he was going to walk across the park from their flat to Michael Stamford’s office. Mary thought it was a ridiculous thing to do, because it was a chill, damp day, and that he should know very well how such weather made his shoulder ache. Well, he did know that, of course; it was his shoulder after all. And even if he had been inclined to ever forget the pain, he was sure that Mary would not fail to remind him of it.

Purely out of love, of course.

Of which Mary would also not fail to remind him.

While he was bent over tying his shoes and therefore in no real position to defend himself, she also pointed out that he could afford a cab. “Come to that,” she went on, “what we ought to do is buy a car. Just something small, so we can zip around the city when we want. Doesn’t that sound lovely?” She was actually only devoting part of her attention to the conversation. The rest was focused on the typewriter.

Her argument that taking the walk on such a day would be ridiculous thing to do was somewhat undercut by the fact that these days she seemed to think that most of what he did was ridiculous. Life in the flat was not really very nice at the moment.

To be fair, he also knew that only a part of his attention was on their conversation as well. He was thinking instead about the upcoming meeting with his literary agent. 

“You know,” he said mildly, “I don’t really need a lecture from you before I get one from Michael.”

She swore under her breath, although not at him it seemed, and reached for the rubber. Without looking at him, she said, “Why will Michael be lecturing you? He really doesn’t seem like the lecturing sort.” Then she frowned and that was definitely aimed at him. “And that is not what I was doing either.”

He knew she was feeling a lot of stress at the moment. Her editor at the Times was expecting this article on the role of women in post-war Britain by the end of the day, but still… Apparently the role of one particular woman was to irritate him. Then, as usual, he felt guilty and a bit churlish for the thought.

John’s lips tightened briefly as he finished with his tie. “As I’ve mentioned more than once, my deadline was two weeks ago. The publisher is unhappy, so Michael is not best pleased either.”

Mary was using the little brush to clean up her page from the erasure. Once that was done, she stood and walked over to kiss him on the cheek. “You’ll sort it, John,” she said. “Besides, that publisher has made so much money from your first book that they will give you all the time you need to finish the second.”

He managed not to sigh, as apparently sighs were sometimes annoying. Neither did he point out that having more time and/or missed deadlines were the least of it. Michael Stamford thought he was writing the wrong book altogether. The publisher was most interested in having another war book, but John Watson was done with that part of his life and had no intention of revisiting it. Sizable advance notwithstanding.

Mary was already back at the typewriter, her fingers moving quickly over the keys. “Tell Michael I said hello,” she mumbled.

John collected his Macintosh and hat, before leaving the flat without saying anything more. It was almost a relief to be on his own and that caused him to wonder when everything had become so strained between them. Although, to be honest, this had never been an easy relationship; it was more than anything else a relationship into which they had both simply and almost carelessly fallen. Now, a decade later, neither one knew what to do next.

He had met Mary Morstan while still in hospital, as the doctors struggled to rehabilitate his arm and also to understand why his perfectly undamaged leg sometimes refused to work properly. The arm was now scarred, but otherwise fine [except for that damned aching in the cold and damp]. As for the leg, well, that remained mercurial, but at least he only had to use the hateful cane occasionally.

At the time they met, Mary was a very junior staff writer at the local newspaper, looking for interesting [and preferably heartbreaking] stories from the damaged soldiers on the ward. He watched her move amongst the men in the sunroom, talking and smiling and being charming in a way that seemed too practised for a girl of only eighteen. 

John was impressed. Finally she reached him where he was sitting in a pushchair alone by the window. Coincidentally, at that same time, a nurse brought him a packet from the mail. It was from Michael Stamford and when John awkwardly ripped it open, inside was his journal, which he had left in his pack on that last day.

He held the small book in his hands and wept.

Mary watched him for a time and then began to talk. She wanted to read his words, but he just shook his head.

Their relationship moved quickly, two solitary young people, each looking for an anchor in a world that seemed to hold no safe places anymore. When he was finally discharged and had nowhere to go, it seemed only natural for them to take up residence together. Mary was a liberal sort of woman who did not expect or even want the usual sort of life. John rather thought sometimes that he should have wanted the usual sort of life, but whenever he thought of it too deeply, he got a bit sick.

So now, nearly ten years later, they were still together, but the cracks were showing. Things were now a matter of habit more than anything else. Really, what they had was a usual sort of life without the paperwork and it was still not what either of them actually wanted.

As Mary had predicted, it was not a pleasant walk through Hyde Park, even huddled into the mac and with his flatcap pulled down firmly. But while the shoulder was already aching, John didn’t really mind. It felt good, actually, to face the physical challenge.

Still, he was glad to reach the Georgian building that housed Stamford’s office. He paused in the entryway to remove the damp coat and hat, hung them, and then took a moment longer to gaze at the framed enlargement of the cover of his first book on the wall, along with those of other Stamford clients. HOW GLORIOUS FALL THE VALIANT by John H. Watson. An award winner. A bestseller. His life.

Since the book’s publication and all the attention garnered by its success, John kept busy writing short stories and literary reviews, but most of his attention had been centered on the new novel.

“John,” Michael said, emerging from his office, one hand already out, “Nice to see you.”

Stamford had changed very little since the day they’d met in the trenches. His plump face was a little plumper, but the eyes still sparkled and he still smiled so easily.

“Michael,” John returned.

Tea was offered and gratefully accepted. In only a few minutes, they were sitting in the office, tea and biscuits on the desk between them. There were a few pleasantries before Michael sobered. “How is the book coming, John? I don’t like to press, but your editor is making unhappy noises.”

“Some things can’t---won’t---be rushed,” John replied, sounding somewhat more querulous than he had really intended.

Stamford leaned back and from the expression on his face John knew what was coming, “Maybe this isn’t the book you should be writing right now,” he said quietly.

John sat a little straighter in the chair. “I do not want to do another war book. Everything I had to say about that abomination I said in Glorious. I have no intention of being one of those writers who only has one story and tells it ad nauseum.”

Stamford was shaking his head. “I’m not saying that, John. But to go in such a different direction…”

John just swallowed tea for a while. “This book means a lot to me.”

Stamford gave him a faint, yet sympathetic smile. “I know, John. And the bits I have read are quite lovely.”

Because of the man Stamford was, John knew that the words were sincere. LOST IN THE PLEIDES was a story from a very different part of John’s life, the summer he was fifteen and met a boy named William Murray. The book was a meditation on their close friendship over the course of a year and how it all ended one hot summer’s day when a trip to a pond went tragically wrong. John had tried so hard to save him, had very nearly drowned himself as he dragged William to the shore. But it was too late.

This was the story John had been writing at university, before he went off to war. It was the story he wanted, needed, to tell now.

Even if no one else wanted it told.

*

The meeting with Michael had ended on a friendly but unresolved note. It was during the cab ride back to the flat that John came to a decision about something that had been in the back of his mind for months. How Mary would feel about it was a question to which he had no answer, but he already knew that her decision would not influence his own.

That evening they were sitting in the half-darkened flat, drinking some wine, when he spoke. “I want to go to Paris,” John said. “I think being in the city, on the Left Bank, surrounded by everything happening there right now will help me with the book.”

At once, Mary’s face brightened. “Oh, John, I think that’s a wonderful idea. I’m sure I can convince my editor that a series of articles from the continent would be well-received by the public.”

It was slightly startling for John to realise that he had almost been hoping that Mary would refuse to go.

Then he chastised himself.

Mary was a lovely, intelligent woman, and if he frequently felt lonelier when with her than he ever had when he’d been alone, it was not her fault. They could work it out.

Maybe Paris would be the answer to all of his problems.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Ten: Fainter by Degrees


	10. Fainter By Degrees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes the Left Bank by storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for hanging in as I present this tale.

To die takes just a little while---  
they say it doesn’t hurt---It’s only  
fainter by degrees---and then it’s out  
of sight.

-Emily Dickinson

 

Sherlock had finally come to the conclusion that the best way to get Mycroft to stop badgering him to go to Europe was, in fact, to go to Europe.

He was not going there to play any of his brother’s foolish espionage games, of course, nor was he going to Berlin. Instead, he settled quite nicely into the vibrant maelstrom of the Left Bank.

As a plan to keep Mycroft from annoying him, it was only minimally successful, but otherwise the move was fine. Paris was a good place for him to paint. Instead of committing dull politicians and minor royals to canvas, he was now engaged by wealthy Americans, expat British adventurers, and Europeans of every stripe. Last month he’d even done the portrait of a Japanese admiral, although there was no explanation of what he was doing in France. Regardless of who it might be, everyone, it seemed, wanted their portrait done by Sherlock Holmes and they were willing to pay outrageously for the privilege. They were also willing to risk the revelation of things they would rather not be revealed. [That admiral was stealing military secrets and selling them to the Germans.]

After only six months in Paris, Sherlock Holmes was already notorious.

*

The wealthy exiled Russian count [really, was every exiled Russian either a count or a princess?] wanted a portrait of his exotic and very young Eurasian wife. She was a pouting beauty and the red silk dress set off her colouring delightfully.

Sherlock was wearied by the number of times he’d had to tell her to shut up [147] over the last two weeks, but thankfully today was the last time he would have to deal with her vapidity and the glaring attentions of the count, who seemed to believe that if he turned his back for a single moment, the bohemian artist would throw himself at his wife.

Today, however, the count was beaming. He liked the painting. “Lovely,” he said in heavily accented English. “You have captured her beauty.”

“Hmm,” was all Sherlock said in reply. He wondered how long it would take for the count to look more closely and see the hard edge in those lovely eyes, the slight tightening around the scarlet lips, her history in one of the most exclusive bordellos in Singapore.

But as Sherlock glanced from the count’s fleshy face back to the opaque gaze of his wife, he realised that long before the count understood the truth, this woman would tire of his fawning, his sloppy sexual attentions, the very sound of his voice. She would take what she could and move on. Sherlock imagined that this painting would not survive the man’s rage so he just scribbled his signature and was done.

At the moment, thankfully, all was good will and happiness, at least as far as the ridiculous count was concerned. Arrangements were made to have the portrait delivered to their suite at the Hotel Le Bristol as soon as possible. Although the count had, as was usual, paid in advance, he pronounced himself so delighted that he pressed a little bonus into Sherlock’s hand. He then whisked the wife away so that there was no chance she could be corrupted by this peculiar artiste.

Idiot.

*

It was late that very night, as he sat alone at a small table in the most isolated corner of the bistro, finishing his second absinthe and trying to ignore everyone else in the place, that moving to Paris suddenly did not seem like such a brilliant idea after all.

“Holy fucking hell. It’s bloody Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. He recognized the voice and it belonged to a man he had hoped fervently to never see again. A man he’d dearly hoped was still lying in a trench somewhere in France. Buried under mud and being nibbled on by brown rats.

But apparently not.

Victor Trevor dropped into the other chair.

Sherlock cast a quick look over him. The last decade or so had not been kind to Trevor. His once-chiseled good looks had crumbled more than a bit and were now edging into dissolution.

Which made him perfect for the Left Bank.

Sherlock still didn’t speak.

Trevor was just looking at him; the gaze still held that hint of dark hunger that he had always aimed at Sherlock. He finally shook his head. “Christ, Holmes, you haven’t changed at all. Except that maturity suits you.”

Having seen all that he needed to, Sherlock took a deep breath and began to speak. “Two ex-wives, Trevor? Goodness, how careless of you. Presumably neither of them approved of your other…interests. Interests, by the way, in which ‘maturity’ plays no part.”

Trevor didn’t respond.

“Oh, and also two failed business enterprises. Presumably your partners in those businesses did not approve of your light fingers. So now here you are, hovering on the edges of the demimonde, which tolerates you because of your continuing ability to provide them with various substances which they desire.” He paused just long enough to give Trevor the impression that he was finished and then smiled coldly. “Congratulations, by the way, on ridding yourself of that rather nasty infection. Charming as the alley boys might be, they do come with risks.”

Frankly, he was rather hoping that Trevor would just get angry and leave, hopefully without taking a punch at him, but he was prepared to deal with that, too, if necessary.

Trevor looked momentarily stunned, but then recovered enough to sneer at him. “And where are you getting your ‘substances’ these days, Sherlock?”

Well, truth be told, it was rather inconvenient to track down what he wanted when he wanted it. Too often, it forced him to interact with distasteful people. But at least they did not look at him as if they had his body stretched out naked on satin sheets. But he didn’t say any of that to Trevor.

Anyway, he was trying to quit. It had actually been weeks since he’d given in. The fatigue had faded and the depression was really no more than what he suffered from normally. After all, he had not been addicted.

After a moment, Trevor leaned closer. “You are still amazing to look at, Sherlock,” he whispered. “I would still like to…” He broke off, licking his lower lip.

Sherlock angled his body away from the other man.

Trevor only chuckled. “So I get to pursue you again. How delightful. We both know how this particular dance goes, don’t we? Except that no one will be shooting at us this time.” He grinned.

“Don’t count on that,” Sherlock muttered.

Trevor reached into his coat pocket and took out a small envelope, which he set next to Sherlock’s hand. “The quality is better than during the war.” Then he stood and looked down at Sherlock. “That shade of azure in particularly flattering to you, Sherlock.” He reached out as if to touch the satin waistcoat.

Immediately, Sherlock gripped his wrist tightly and Trevor flinched. “You should realise, Trevor, that I am no longer the boy I was at eighteen.”

Trevor’s smile was unpleasant. “But still the addict, right?” His voice lowered again. “And you should realise that I am not nearly as patient as I once was. The gifts will not flow as freely without payment.” Then he turned and walked away.

Sherlock swallowed the rest of his drink and immediately waved for another. Then he tucked the envelope into the watch pocket of his waistcoat.

*

Sherlock often walked the streets of Paris, although it was not the same as when he had walked in London. That city was a part of him and moving through its streets, especially alone and at night, was a way of getting to know himself better.

When he walked here, however, he was only trying to lose himself.

It was so late that it was very nearly early when he stopped on the Petit Pont near the Ile de la Cite and looked down at the water. Most of the alcohol was gone from his system and now he just felt…exhausted.

One hand toyed with the envelope of cocaine. There was not much inside, he could tell, but enough to give him just enough energy to get through the coming day. Hadn’t he already proven that he wasn’t an addict? That he could get by without it? What harm would be done if he just used the little bit here to help him over this slight bump in the road?

“So, Holmes,” he said aloud. “This is what you have been reduced to, just hoping for the energy to get through the day. Brilliant.”

Was it even worth the effort?

He held the envelope between two fingers.

Trevor’s smug face appeared before him.

That image was followed by another: Mycroft’s sneer.

Suddenly, not really knowing that he was going to do it, Sherlock opened his fingers and let the cocaine fall into the water, watching it float away.

In the distance, he heard the early morning clatter of a milk delivery wagon. It was time to return to the small bedroom above his studio. In his mind, he was no longer seeing Trevor or his brother. Instead, he was trying to recall something else, but weariness and a slight hangover worked to chase away the---well, what was it? Memory? Dream? Probably just a cocaine-fuelled fantasy. 

He imagined---remembered?---a soft brown gaze that was neither sneering nor smug. That did not dismiss him.

Sherlock hunched into his coat and walked more quickly towards his bed.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter 11: The Reckless Choice


	11. The Reckless Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last they are in the same city.

I shall set forth for somewhere,  
I shall make the reckless choice.

-Robert Frost

 

John could not help but remember the last time he had made a crossing of the Channel. The circumstances now were quite different, of course. That other voyage had been marked by fear and pain. He could still smell the blood and piss and shit; he could still hear the cries and moans and pleas of the other men crowded onto the hospital ship with him.

With a barely suppressed shudder, he yanked himself back to the present day. Luckily, the fleeting panic went unnoticed by Mary, as usual.

By contrast, this trip was being made sitting in a pleasant lounge, sipping tea and eating pastries, while listening to Mary chatter on about the numerous articles she was planning to write. John nodded in all the right places and wondered if this was going to turn out to be a grave mistake. In London, they had both known people, had their own social circles that sometimes over-lapped, but at the same time allowed for considerable autonomy. Perhaps it was not the most romantic of situations, but they had been together for a long time and Mary always seemed content with things as they were. As for John himself, he realised only now that the arrangement had suited him admirably. It meant that he didn’t have to even think about his life, really. Things just were what they were.

But it had just occurred to him [somewhat belatedly, of course] that things might well be different in Paris. They would undoubtedly be thrown together more and he probably should have been happier about that prospect than he was.

As Mary talked on, John began to hope that all her new plans would keep her busy and happy.

Michael Stamford had been enthusiastic about the idea. “This is excellent, John,” he’d said on hearing the news. “A change of scene, just the thing for your muse.”

It had been Michael, in fact, who had helped them procure the small but chic flat on the Left Bank and also facilitated introductions to several people he thought that John should meet. All John really wanted was to work on his novel and finally finish it, so that perhaps that part of the past could be put to rest for good. So much of his past would be better put to rest.

As they approached the landing in Calais he decided that it was probably a good thing there was such a flurry of activity---collecting their luggage, making their way to the train, finding a taxi in Paris---that it kept him from worrying.

For better or worse, his life was about to change.

*

 

By the next day, Mary was already deeply involved in an assignment her editor had telegraphed her about, some political story that she did not bother to really explain to John before she set off in pursuit of an interview with the British Ambassador.

Left alone in their tiny but pleasant parlour, John finished a cup of coffee and then began to dress. He selected a new summer weight suit, with a soft grey shirt, and a black silk tie in a diamond pattern. It was a warm and sunny day, so he decided to go without a coat and just added a newsboy cap of black linen.

“Well, Watson,” he said to his reflection in the ornately framed mirror. “Maybe you’ll do for the Left Bank.” Although he remained skeptical.

He set off to walk to the George Sand Bookshop, which was just a few streets away.

John knew about the shop; every one in the literary world and many who were not had heard of it. The owners had made it into the primary gathering spot for the intellectual and artistic class of Paris. John was unsure as to whether or not he belonged in such a group, but Michael had insisted he must make the connection.

As he pulled open the door, a tiny bell hanging above sounded a sprightly tune. Immediately, John felt comfortable within the space. Pleasantly crammed bookshelves lined the walls, over-stuffed armchairs dotted the room, and colourful paintings filled any empty space.

Stopping just inside the room, he removed his cap. He was so interested in the surroundings that he didn’t notice the woman approaching until she was right in front of him. “Bon jour,” she said in a soft voice.

He turned his head to look at her and saw a tall, slender woman with lustrous dark hair pinned up elaborately. Her simple skirt and blouse showed off her figure to fine advantage. “Hello,” he said in return, wishing he had more confidence in his French. If she had spoken to him in Latin, he would have been well up for it, of course.

“Oh, you’re British,” she said with a smile.

“And you---American?” he ventured.

“Canadian, actually.” She held out her hand. “Irene Adler.”

John was embarrassed for not having recognised her immediately. The famous---infamous?---Miss Adler, internationally known poet, and co-owner of the bookshop with her unabashedly acknowledged lover, Sally Donovan. Whilst being adored by the artistic community, the pair often scandalised the rest of society. Not that they seemed to care.

He held out his hand. “John Watson.”

A look of recognition at hearing his name crossed her face and John allowed himself a frisson of pleasure. “How delightful. I should have recognised you immediately from the photograph on your book cover, even without the glasses. Michael Stamford told us you were coming to Paris. May I express my complete admiration for your beautiful novel? I lost count of the number of people I insisted must read it.”

John wished that he could stop of habit of pinking up at praise. “How kind of you. Michael was quite adamant that I must inflict myself upon you.”

“Of course he was! Everyone who is anyone comes to the George Sand. And you are definitely someone.”

Before he quite knew what was happening, they were sitting in a back corner of the shop, ensconced in two of the cosy armchairs, sipping sherry, even though it was a little early in the day for John. Well, when in Paris…

He was introduced to Sally Donovan, who turned out to be a caramel-coloured beauty with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue, judging by some of the remarks she aimed at a number of well-known writers and artists, most of whom no doubt ranked amongst their clientele.

Irene seemed mostly amused by her comments, at least until Sally leaned closer. “Just a word, John, about the Freak.”

“Sally,” Irene admonished softly.

“Sorry?” John said with a frown.

“Oh, Irene, he has to know. When I say ‘freak’, I am talking about Sherlock Holmes.”

The name meant nothing to John.

“Holmes is a brilliant painter, “ Sally said. “But he is also a complete madman. Avoid him for your own good.”

John was, frankly, a bit dismayed by her words. He did not like name-calling; it was not quite sporting to run down a fellow who wasn’t even there to defend himself.

Irene chuckled a bit. “Sadly, John, Sally has never forgiven Holmes for revealing at a cocktail party that she once carried on with a married football player before meeting me.”

John could tell from the slightly sheepish expression on Sally’s face that Irene was correct. Then she frowned at him. “That’s what he does. Figures out your deepest secrets somehow. And then reveals them.”

Irene was still looking more bemused than anything else. “To be fair, my dear, he revealed nothing until you had publically called him a freak several times. Rather loudly.”

Sally huffed.

John gave a short laugh. “Well, I don’t have any scandalous secrets at all, so I cannot imagine that this Holmes fellow would find me in the slightest interesting.” Which was not quite true, of course, because there were definitely things going on inside his head that he would not want anyone else to know. Not that any of it could be called scandalous. “At any rate, I don’t expect to be out and about much. I’m here to work.”

Now Irene tut-tutted at him. “We’re all here to work, John, but you must still be sociable. That’s what Paris is all about.” She rose languidly and moved to a cluttered desk, shuffling papers around a bit before pulling out a heavy card. “This is perfect. Tomorrow night, a gallery opening. Everyone will be there. You shall plunge right in and let them know that John Watson has arrived.”

He took the card reluctantly. “But isn’t this yours?”

She waved a careless hand. “Oh, please. They will let me in without an invitation.”

Sally seemed to have recovered her tart tongue. “They would let you in if you appeared at the door stark naked.”

“With alacrity, I have no doubt.”

John stood, amused by their banter. “Well, I shall ask my companion. She might have plans.”

In truth, he knew that Mary would jump at the chance to attend the opening and be surrounded by the glittering lights of the Left Bank. Which was why he was not sure he would mention it to her. And that, of course, made him feel guilty once again.

Irene and Sally gave him a friendly send-off, although only after he had signed several copies of HOW GLORIOUS FALL THE VALIANT, and promised to really try to make the opening the following night.

As usual, in the end, it was not down to him, because Mary found the invitation where he had carelessly left it on his desk. She immediately began planning what to wear.

John just sighed and picked up his pen to edit yet again the scene he had been working on for three days.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Twelve: Where You Turn Your Eyes


	12. Where You Turn Your Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last, John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So close…
> 
> Whew! This chapter now has art, thanks to my good friend Shirley Carlton. [And assuming I do this pasting thing correctly…] Thanks to Shirley.

And all things flourish where  
you turn your eyes.

-Alexander Pope

 

Sherlock would rather have just stayed in his studio, painting or drinking or even just sitting and staring at the wall. He was never really a sociable type and everyone from his now quite ancient first nanny to his agent Gregory Lestrade knew that very well. Nevertheless, just as Miss Amelia would occasionally force him to attend the stupid birthday parties of his primary school classmates, Lestrade sometimes insisted on forcing him out into the world. Usually both the nanny and the agent would regret making him do what he did not want to.

Since Miss Amelia was currently enjoying her retirement in Eastbourne, the fact that he was at this particular gathering was entirely down to Lestrade, who had accosted him at the studio earlier in the day.

“Just turn up, show your face a bit, that’s all I’m asking.” His agent’s voice was a melodious mix of a French birth, followed by a mostly British education at various public schools. As well as representing Sherlock [and a very small, select group of other young post-war artists], he also owned Galerie Lestrade, one of the most prestigious galleries not only in Paris, but on the entire continent.

None of which compelled Sherlock to tolerate him for any length of time.

“Boring,” Sherlock snapped. Most of his attention was focused on the preparing of a new canvas. 

His latest subject would be arriving soon. He was finished with the preliminary drawings and was now ready to start applying paint to canvas. Sadly, this time, there would be no scandalous secrets to keep him entertained as he worked. The young woman---one Miss Molly Hooper---was obvious and boring in the extreme. The daughter of a prosperous mine owner, she had done her London season [although that itself was a rather fading ritual] and then watched two more seasons go by without attracting any acceptable proposals. Apparently in desperation, she had been sent abroad in the hopes that she might appear more appealing in a foreign clime.

Her efforts to seduce him had been clumsy and embarrassing, but he had finally managed to discourage her and now it was mostly just yearning glances when she thought he wouldn’t notice. He would be extremely glad to be finished with this particular portrait.

Lesstrade’s voice broke through again. “You’ll be bored no matter what you do this evening,” Lestrade pointed out. Sometimes he wasn’t quite as stupid as Sherlock liked to think.

“Well, yes. But at least here I can be bored in my dressing gown.”

Lestrade seemed to hang on more tightly to his patience. “Sherlock, we are getting your exhibition ready to open. You do want people to attend, I assume? After all, this exhibition was your idea in the first place.” And Lestrade had been rather cool on the idea to start with.

It was a puzzle, even to Sherlock why he cared so much about this particular exhibition.

Most often, he was not especially bothered by how many turned up to sip wine [which at least at this opening would be good—the Lestrades owned a massive vineyards] and stare at his paintings. But for this show, he cared, even if he didn’t know why. Lestrade had come around on the issue and even Mycroft had stopped querying him on the subject.

He wanted his war art to be seen and that was all. It did aggravate him that he didn’t know why it mattered. 

*

At any rate, all of that explained why he found himself standing in a corner of this chic [for which read pretentious] little gallery not far from the Eiffel Tower. The art itself he had looked at and dismissed within the first few minutes. Surrealism held little interest for him, especially when badly done. The wine was as mediocre as always [when it was not provided by Lestrade] and the room was crowded with too many idiots.

He was, of course, attracting a lot of attention, which was quite intentional on his part. If Lestrade wanted him to be in the public eye, he would not disappoint. There was, at least, some amusement to be found in being aware of the subtle and not-so-subtle gazes cast his way.

Sherlock knew that he cut quite a figure when he made an effort and tonight he had, only because it amused him to do so. He was wearing a black suit cut somewhat more slimly than current fashion dictated, with a deep burgundy silk shirt. No tie, because he hated ties. And, in a bit of whimsy that he could not resist, a bright yellow waistcoat embroidered with tiny violet flowers. His curls had been deliberately left in a riotous tumble that would have caused Mycroft to purse his lips in irritation. Luckily, his brother was safely on the other side of the channel running the Empire. Such as it was these days.

No one else seemed to find the curls distasteful.

Luckily, his reputation very much preceded him and so very few of the attendees were brave enough [or stupid enough] to actually approach him. The few who did were quickly put off by his tart comments.

Which meant that he was at liberty to simply observe. He looked over the chattering crowd, hoping for something, anything, to genuinely catch his attention. Otherwise, he might well expire from utter boredom.

Oh, well, he finally spotted two new faces, which might entertain him briefly, at least.

The woman was conventionally pretty, over-dressed for the occasion, and quite clearly a member of the press. She was awkward in her eagerness to fit in, which made a few of the people around her look disdainful. Sherlock dismissed her with a blink.

He then turned his attention to the man standing next to her and found him somewhat more interesting, because while his face appeared to be open and friendly, but there was also something else there, something that spoke of hidden layers. Sherlock looked more closely. The man was rather shorter than average, but sturdily built. There was obviously an old injury to his shoulder. He accepted a glass of wine with a smile that managed to be sincere and yet empty at the same time. His grey suit was obviously new and worn with a white shirt and a boring tie. His hair was an interesting mix of brown and blond and for some reason that fact brought Sherlock up short.

Then, without warning, the man turned his gaze to Sherlock.

Their eyes locked.

Improbably, Sherlock briefly wondered if it were possible that this small, and unimportant gallery in Paris had been hit by an unprecedented earthquake; he suddenly felt dangerously unsteady on his feet, as if the very foundation of the building had shifted. Or the foundation of his life.

Those eyes. That gaze.

It had not been a dream or a cocaine-fuelled fantasy.

This was the man he’d seen a decade ago in a hospital tent, the man whose eyes he had gazed into endlessly. A man who had, in those fleeting moments, touched something so deep in Sherlock that he might have called it a soul had he believed in that sort of nonsense.

They were still staring.

The man’s face was now showing more than a hint of bewilderment, but he did not look away.

Sherlock wanted to stay just as they were forever, locked into the private universe of their shared gaze.

[](http://prettyrealisticjohnlockfanart.tumblr.com/post/121943765811/illustration-for-chapter-12-of-the-very-eyes-of)

But, abruptly, something, someone, was in front of him, blocking his view, breaking the connection. Sherlock swallowed hard and refocused angrily.

“Sherlock,” said a loud and irritatingly familiar drunken voice. Then Victor Trevor put both hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. “Aren’t you the prettiest peacock in the room?”

Sherlock wanted to shove him out of the way so that he could see, well, whoever it was, that man. Instead, he only twisted so that he could look beyond Trevor. But the man was gone. No, not gone, but no longer looking at Sherlock. Instead, he was now talking to the woman with whom he had arrived.

Sherlock just kept watching him.

“Very nice to see you again,” Trevor said. “You so rarely venture out amongst us ordinary humans.”

“Trevor,” Sherlock said in a low and dangerous voice, “get your hands off of me or I will break both your wrists.”

Trevor started to laugh, but then seemed to see something in Sherlock’s face that frightened him, even in his drunken state. He dropped his hands and stepped back. “Is that any way to talk to an old friend, Sherlock?”

“I don’t have friends,” Sherlock spit out, watching the stranger. No, that wasn’t the correct word, but he had no idea which one would be a better fit.

The other man glanced at him again, but it was only a quick, still slightly puzzled look, and then the woman was patting his cheek. The gesture sent a pang of something odd through Sherlock’s chest. Then more people shifted and he could not see the man at all.

Trevor was still there. “Well, is that any way to talk to the man who has a nice new supply of what you need?” he purred.

For some reason, Sherlock was suddenly very glad about what he had done with that previous envelope of cocaine. There had been something in the soft brown gaze that he felt sure would not approve of that particular habit. “I don’t need anything from you.”

Trevor only chuckled and started to reach into his pocket.

Sherlock moved just a little closer and spoke in a whisper. “Your last little gift ended up in the Seine,” he said. “Leave me alone.”

Something dark and unpleasant crossed Trevor’s face.

But Sherlock just walked away.

He crossed the room to where Lestrade was standing, talking to Irene. “Have I satisfied the requirement to socialise?”

“Minimally,” Lestrade replied drily. “Who was that charming fellow?” He nodded towards where Trevor still stood.

“Absolutely no one of any importance,” Sherlock said sharply. Then he gestured Lestrade closer. “The question is, who is that?” He nodded towards the man, who was now talking to Fitzgerald.

Irene, who was listening, gave a soft laugh. “Oh, trust you to notice. That, my dear, is John Watson.” She must have noticed the blankness in his face and gave a sigh. “Author of the best novel about the war,” she added in explanation.

Lestrade turned to look. “Why should you care?”

“I don’t,” Sherlock said coolly.

Irene tapped his arm. “Sally has already warned him to stay away from you.”

“Sally is a bitch,” Sherlock just murmured absently. Without saying anything more, he left.

Somehow, without looking back at all, he knew that a pair of soft brown eyes watched him go.

*

Once back in his studio, he went immediately to the small storage closet and moved things around until he found a battered sketchbook tucked into a small trunk. He pulled it out carefully.

He poured a glass of Laphroaig he’d liberated from Mycroft’s drinks cabinet before leaving London, then undressed, donning pajama trousers and his dressing gown. At last, he stretched out on the comfortable divan and opened the retrieved sketchbook. His fingers went to the correct page automatically, even after all the years that had passed. He stared at the drawing of---apparently---John Watson, remembering every moment of their first encounter.

If it could even be called an encounter.

A careful fingertip moved over the face in the drawing.

“John Watson,” he whispered.

He had never done the painting he’d meant to do. Every time he’d tried, in the days immediately after, it seemed impossible to capture the moment as he wanted to..

“John,” he said again.

Nearly two hours later he finally stood, drained the glass, and began to prepare a canvas. It was time.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Thirteen: A Lonely Heart


	13. A Lonely Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is confused. Well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, folks! There will be two chapters posted today, because tomorrow I will be a plane to the promised land. Well, London... I have a new app, I have been taught the skill, so the plan is that the posting of a chapter a day will continue. But I wanted to let you know in case I have an epic fail. Hotel wifi is...uncertain. Wish me luck. If the worst happens, I'll be back in three weeks.
> 
> BTW, if anybody reading this is in London, I'm up for a pint!

My heart is a lonely hunter that  
hunts on a hill.

-Fiona MacLeod

 

The eyes.

John Watson jerked into wakefulness with a gasp and a wildly beating heart. He sat up quickly, subconsciously noticing that Mary’s side of the bed was already empty. Also noting, vaguely, that he was rather glad to find himself alone, because no explanations would be demanded.

Which was quite good, because he could explain none of it.

Of course, probably she wouldn’t ask. Mary was quite used to his occasional nightmares and other quirks relating to his war service. Like why a sudden backfire from a passing automobile on Oxford Street had caused him to throw himself to the pavement. Or why a severe thunderstorm made him tremble like a frightened child. They just never talked about any of it.

This dream had nothing to do with the trenches, the artillery, the terrors of battle.

It was the second morning since the gallery opening and the second morning that he had awakened this way.

After a moment, when his heart rate and breathing had both returned to normal, he lay back down and tried to remember the dream.

Well, actually, it was not that difficult to recall. All he saw in the dream was a pair of silver-green eyes staring at him.

Staring.

But not just staring. Those eyes also seemed to dissect him, to uncover layers of his being that were a secret even to John himself. That gaze knew him and what was even more surprising, John felt, for the first time in his life, glad to be known.

But, of course, there was more to it than that.

John had acknowledged the truth of ‘more’ to himself since the reception at the gallery. He had simply not allowed himself to think about it very much.

Even now, he did not jump from the bed. Instead, he lingered in the solitude, perhaps trying to recover some of what he’d felt in the dream.

What he’d felt had been warmth. Acceptance. Welcome.

John’s hand moved languidly over his lower belly, until he realised what would happen next unless he stopped it. He stilled his hand and decided it was definitely time to get up from the bed. Past time, really.

The usual lukewarm bath suited him this morning and he refused to think about anything at all as he washed and then shaved. Once dressed in flannels and a shirt with a cardigan over it, he went into the tiny sitting room where his desk sat. Mary was nowhere to be seen as he searched on the crowded shelf for, found finally, and picked up a copy of his novel. His fingers went to the correct page automatically.

//My dream was so real, so vivid, that it seemed for a time to obliterate everything else surrounding me. There was no more blood, no more pain, no more screams coming from the dying. There was not even a war. All of that was gone and my reality was narrowed down to the intense gaze of a stranger. My dream image was close enough so that I could see into his eyes, see the verdigris and silver glinting in the half-light of the hospital tent. In fact, it was all I could see.  
I did not look away from him.  
And he did not look away from me.//

Like everything else in the book, that scene was based on John’s own experience. This was what he had remembered of a dream he’d had on that miserable day ten years ago as they evacuated him from France.

Except.

For the first time, he considered the possibility that the incident had not been a dream at all.

He had not been close enough to see the colour of the man’s eyes two nights ago, but the gaze, the intensity he’d felt, and although it was clearly a ridiculous word in the circumstance, the connection between them was just as he’d remembered.

He’d really thought it was just a dream.

And so it had been since then. Over and over again.

Until that moment two nights ago, when the dream became reality.

He closed the book very carefully, held onto it for a moment, and then shoved it back onto the shelf.

*

An hour later, John was sitting at a nearby sidewalk café, with a cup of strong black coffee mostly untouched in front of him. The fingers of one hand toyed with a fresh croissant.

“You look like a man with the problems of the world on your shoulders, John Watson.”

Startled, he looked up to see Irene Adler smiling down at him. “Oh, hello,” he said. It was, after all, a rather small neighborhood and so he should expect to see the same faces often. Which lead to the thought of who else might appear. He squelched that image immediately. Belatedly, he stood. “Please, join me.”

She glanced at a gold watch on her wrist. “For a few moments.” She accepted a small coffee, but declined a pastry. “So, John,” she murmured. “How are you finding Paris?”

“Good,” he said. “Fine.”

“Hmm. Did you enjoy the gallery opening?”

He nodded. Then he finally took a swallow of the cooling coffee and continued to pick at the croissant. “There were certainly a lot of interesting people.” He was squinting at some indeterminate point over her left shoulder. “Fitzgerald was…”

“Well, yes, he is,” she said with a smile.

He glanced at her face and then away again. “Didn’t meet everyone, of course.”

She just gave a soft huff that was not quite a laugh.

He took a breath and tried to sound indifferent. “There was one fellow…”

There seemed to be a smile curling one side of her mouth. “Lots of fellows there. Describe him.”

John didn’t even have to think about it. “Tall and thin. Far too many dark curls. Well-tailored black suit. Yellow waistcoat.” He paused. “And eyes.”

“Oh, he had eyes, did he?” Irene was most definitely amused now.

John could feel a rush of blood to his face. “Well, of course, I meant…”

She patted his hand. “Never mind. That was Sherlock Holmes.”

Holmes. He remembered the name. “He’s the one Sally mentioned.”

Irene dismissed that. “Oh, ignore her. Those two have never gotten on. I like Sherlock, despite his…well, despite him being who he is.”

“So he’s not…mad?”

“I didn’t say that. Of course he’s a bit mad. All the best people are. But he’s also brilliant and talented and quite lovely to look at.”

John decided it would be better not to comment on that, but Irene seemed to hear everything he wasn’t saying anyway.

She finished her coffee in silence and then stood, waving at him to stay seated. “You might be interested in knowing,” she said, leaning in to kiss his cheek, “ that Sherlock was asking after you as well. He’s never done that before.” Then she smiled and walked off, her heels clacking against the old cobblestones.

John continued to sit there, one thought still uppermost in his mind.

It had not been a dream, that moment in the tent. Sherlock Holmes had been there, had stared at him just as he had done two nights ago in the gallery.

What he was meant to do with that realisation he had absolutely no idea.

*

Mary eventually turned up at the flat, bursting with excitement. “Russia, John,” she said as soon as she saw him sitting at his desk.

“Russia? A vast nation. Lots of land. Lots of people. Used to have a czar. Now run by the communists.” He shrugged. “That’s all I know.”

She laughed and swatted his shoulder, forgetting yet again that it sometimes still hurt. “No, you idiot. I’m going to Russia with a delegation of British and American labor leaders. To tour some factories and talk to people.”

He finally looked up from the typewriter. “Oh? When?”

“I have to leave in two days.”

“Well, excellent. Good for you.”

She only nodded and hustled into the bedroom, not doubt to start packing.

He was pleased for her.

And a part of him was glad that he would be on his own for a time. There was a lot to think about.

John leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment.

Yes, there was a lot to think about.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Fourteen: The Weary Blues


	14. The Weary Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is annoyed. Well. And yearning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised!

I got the weary blues and can’t  
be satisfied.

-Langston Hughes

 

It annoyed Sherlock that the idiotic Hooper woman was due at any moment for the last session of work on her portrait. At the best of times, he found her company irritating, but now he was so close to finishing the painting of John Watson that it was all he wanted to think about.

But at least he would be free of her after today. Although, if she continued to simper at him or made a single ridiculous suggestion about having coffee, he could not be held responsible for his actions. 

When he heard the already unlocked downstairs door open, he carefully moved the easel with John’s portrait to a safe place in a corner of the large room. Even as he did that, it became clear that Miss Hooper was not alone. Two sets of footsteps were coming up and two voices exchanged soft words.

As soon as Miss Hooper came through the door, Sherlock knew that her lachrymose adoration was no longer going to be an issue. The reason for that was right at her heels.

Just behind her was a slender man, Sherlock’s age or perhaps a little younger, dressed in an expensive bespoke suit. His face was clever and devious and there was something in his dark eyes that made Sherlock wonder what the stupid young woman had gotten herself into.

As for Miss Hooper, she seemed delighted and more than a little cat-who-got-the-canary pleased. “Mr. Holmes, this is my friend, James Moriarty,” she said, sounding as if she were introducing him to the Prince of Wales.

Moriarty held out an eager hand. “Mr. Holmes, a pleasure. I’ve been keen to make your acquaintance since I arrived in Paris. You’re quite the talk of the city.”

Sherlock just looked at him, not accepting the proffered hand. There was something unpleasant in the tone of the words, although he realised immediately that the man was more than just clever. He was smart. Very smart. Which only led him again to wonder what he was doing with Molly Hooper. It seemed a most unlikely match.

“Shall we get to work, Miss Hooper? I’m a busy man.”

Moriarty only smirked, lowering his hand.

She took her place in the chair and with no more conversation, Sherlock started to add the finishing details to the painting. As he worked, Sherlock was unpleasantly aware of the other man strolling around the room, making a slight humming sound as he looked at various canvases leaning against the wall. 

If pity had been something that Sherlock ever felt, he might have spared a little for the stupid but basically blameless young woman posing for him. Whatever she had going on with Moriarty was not going to end well, of that Sherlock was convinced.

But mostly, Sherlock just wanted them both gone so that he could return to the only work that mattered to him at the moment. Even in his impatience, however, he could not be anything but meticulous when there was a brush in his hand.

Still, after some time, he became aware that Moriarty had moved around to the corner where the easel with John’s portrait stood. He was moving unacceptably close. “Leave that,” Sherlock barked out.

Moriarty paused, looking from the portrait to Sherlock and then back again. “Oh,” he said. “How funny.” Then he smirked and moved on.

Finally Sherlock shoved his brush into the jar of turpentine and pronounced himself finished. Miss Hooper declared herself delighted with the result and Moriarty gallantly pointed out that no painter, never mind how great, could do justice to her. Sadly, she seemed to believe him.

Delivery arrangements were made and then Miss Hooper took Moriarty’s offered arm and they moved towards the door. Before he exited, Moriarty looked back, a strange light in his eyes. “Until next time, my dear Holmes,” he said in a tone that was clearly meant to be mocking.

Sherlock closed the door firmly.

Now, finally, he could return to the portrait of John Watson. 

He lit a Gauloises and stood back to stare at the image.

John had not changed a great deal in the past decade, not in the important ways at any rate. As highly as Sherlock thought of his own artistic abilities [and that was very highly indeed; he was really not very modest], even he was rather amazed at how well he had captured John in the sketch he’d done that day. His open and honest face was obvious, even twisted with pain as it had been. His eyes, those amazing and all-knowing eyes, had such quiet strength, even though they were glazed with drugs. It was all there and now he had translated it all from that sketch onto the canvas.

Of course, it was no real surprise that he had captured his subject so well, because that was what he did. He was famous [or infamous] for it.

On the other hand, he was well aware that never had Holmes the artist revealed so much of himself in a painting. Which fact undoubtedly explained Moriarty’s reaction. It was rather disturbing that the other man had read the truth of the portrait so quickly and accurately

The most troubling thing about it all was how absolutely untroubled Sherlock felt.

He could not understand why it had taken him so long to do this painting. But as he stared at it, bits of the past came back, slowly, like a picture being filled in, detail by detail. Sherlock saw his younger self, standing in a badly lighted hut somewhere behind the reserve lines, a blank canvas in front of him. The sketch was propped nearby. As he had done thousands of time before, he picked up a brush and prepared to paint.

But all he did was stare at the sketch, remembering those eyes, the way their gazes had met and held.

He knew nothing about the man, not even if he were still alive. And that was so unbearable that, after a time, he put the whole sketchbook away and never looked at it again.

Until now.

So intent was he upon his thoughts, that Sherlock did not even hear the door downstairs open again or the sound of footsteps coming up. It was only when the tip of a furled brolly tapped at the studio door that he realised he had still another unwelcome intruder. The door opened. “Go away, Mycroft,” he said automatically, absently. The words had become his standard greeting.

“And a good afternoon to you, little brother.”

Sherlock still did not spare him a glance. “What are you doing in Paris? I thought that if you ever left Whitehall, England would crumble. Oh, wait, that’s the ravens at the Tower. Sorry.”

Mycroft grimaced. “Some of us never tire of childish taunts, apparently.”

“Apparently.” Sherlock lit another cigarette.

Mycroft wandered the room, coming to a stop in front of Miss Hooper’s portrait. “Oh, dear,” he said. “A pretty enough little thing, but she should not be allowed out on her own.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock agreed. “And she has appalling taste in beaus.”

“She would.”

Sherlock finally shifted and looked at him. “What do you want?”

“Do I need a reason to visit my only brother?”

“If history is to be believed, yes.”

Mycroft conceded the point with a tiny shrug of one elegant shoulder. “Not this time, however. I am here for a meeting regarding...well, you don’t you need to know about that. At any rate, I just wanted to drop by to say hello and see how you doing. I worry. Mummy worries.”

Sherlock decided that simply refusing to be drawn into conversation might hurry this along. He could have told his brother about what he had done to the envelope of cocaine, but had no intention of doing so. Confessing to having done anything that would make Mycroft happy was not something he wanted to do.

Mycroft had continued to stroll the room, until, like Moriarty, he stopped in front of the portrait of John and studied it. “Oh, this is very good, Sherlock.”

Hopeless to imagine that he would not see everything that was there.

“You’ve captured something…is it for the upcoming exhibition?”

Sherlock watched the smoke curl up from the tip of his Gauloises.

“I would very much like to add this to the family collection. Mummy would find it very…interesting.”

Well, yes, Mummy would, and for the same reason Mycroft found it so. They had both, after all, learned to observe from her.

“It’s not for sale,” Sherlock snapped. “It never will be.”

“No?” Mycroft stared at him for a long moment and then glanced at his watch in a well-practised gesture. “I have an aeroplane to catch, so sadly I must bid you adieu. Shall I convey your greetings to Mummy?”

“You will anyway, so why ask?”

“She will be pleased to hear that you are not indulging in the more dangerous of your vices any longer.”

Damn the man. Sometimes Sherlock thought that Mycroft observed a little too well. And sadly he could never resist revealing what he knew.

When Sherlock did not respond at all, Mycroft left.

Thankfully alone at long last, Sherlock began to prepare his palette. He carefully mixed the colours he wanted and, for no good reason at all except that he wanted to, unwrapped a new brush to use. Perhaps it was sentiment.

As he started to paint, Sherlock could feel a most familiar sensation creeping over him. The sensation was familiar, yes, but it was also different this time.

Different because now he knew exactly what it was that he yearned for.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Fifteen: In A Dark Time


	15. In A Dark Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You were a long time arriving, John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I am in London. Have already had one server crash, but things seem okay now, so I will cross my fingers and hope this works.
> 
> Even more, I hope you enjoy it!

In a dark time, the eye  
begins to see.

-Theodore Roethke

 

The dream was different now.

He no longer dreamt just of two oddly coloured and painfully intense eyes piercing to his very core. That was a dream he’d first had on the ship returning to England from the battlefields of France and periodically since then. Just those eyes.

But now those eyes were set in a pale face composed of improbable angles and knife-sharp edges; now they were framed by dark curls of equal improbability. And there was even a name attached to the gaze.

Sherlock Holmes.

Which was also rather ridiculous. What kind of name was that anyway? Impossibly posh, for one thing.

Just as the dream itself was different now, so was his awakening. No longer did he jerk into a sudden consciousness that was accompanied by a jolt of confusion and something that felt like fear.

John refused to acknowledge his obvious erection, because if he did then something would have to be done about it. The obvious, probably. He knew, without even thinking about it overly much, that if he, ah, took things in hand as it were, it would not be Mary’s face in his imagination.

Simply put, he was not ready for the implications of wondering who he should [would] be thinking of when he brought himself off.

Instead, John decided to think of other things.

The chapter he would write today.

The current political climate back in London.

How Mary was getting on in Moscow.

What he should have for lunch.

When his thoughts descended to that level of absurdity, John gave up. Gave in. It all went very quickly, although it proved to be no less satisfying for that.

Then, as he bathed, he refused to let guilt distract him from what had happened. There were so many things in the world that one could feel guilty about, but he had never thought sex was one of those things. The Victorian era was long over.

Instead, he thought about lunch and decided on cheese, crusty bread, and a hearty red wine.

Then, for some reason, he chuckled.

 

*

Sherlock had fallen into a mood of restlessness, which was never a good thing for him. There was no new commission on hand at the moment and his painting of John Watson was finished. He made himself a cup of tea [and mused once more about the idea of having his tea handed to him every morning by John, which still sounded like one of the best ideas he’d ever had] as he stood in front of the easel to examine the work once again.

It was, he decided, satisfactory. That word was the highest praise Sherlock ever used for his own work and even that occurred only rarely. He realised that the last time he’d used the word was several years ago for a small watercolour he’d done of an apiary in Sussex. That particular work was in the so-called family collection that Mummy and Mycroft insisted on maintaining. He rather thought that they were only waiting until he self-destructed, so that then they could sell all the art for a tidy profit.

If for no other reason than that, he refused to accommodate them by dying.

His tea finished and a plan taking shape in his mind, he dressed in a dove grey suit, a soft linen white shirt, and a silk aqua waistcoat. As usual, he spurned a hat and the day was pleasant enough that his coat was not necessary. Satisfied with his presentation, he left the studio and set off for the destination he had decided upon without even really thinking about.

He walked into the George Sand bookshop and was pleased to find Irene alone, with no sign of Sally. Irene smiled when he entered; she was one of the few people who generally seemed pleased to see him appear. “Hello, handsome,” she said.

As usual, he frowned at her cheeky greeting. “I need a book,” he said shortly.

“Then you are in luck,” she replied. “As it happens, I have several thousand right here.”

He barely restrained a sigh. “A specific book,” he clarified.

Irene nodded, then wicked little smile crossed her scarlet lips. “Oh, let me pretend to be you for a bit,” she said. “Let me…deduce you.”

Sherlock sneered at her, but didn’t say anything. Irene would have her little games, no matter how irritating they were.

She squinted her eyes and studied him. “Tall, curly-haired, thin, with the most beautiful eyes in the world, and a wicked, wicked tongue.”

“Irene,” he finally said with a sigh.

She reached under the counter and pulled out a book. “I deduce that this is the book you want.” 

He took the copy of HOW GLORIOUS FALL THE VALIANT.

“And it is even signed by the author.”

Sherlock opened the book to the title page. There, in a careful hand, was the name John H. Watson. “Thank you,” he said absently, only vaguely aware that his index finger was tracing over the signature.

“When are you going to speak to him, Sherlock?” Irene asked quietly, all trace of humour gone from her voice.

He only shrugged, hating the way he felt, which was tentative. Sherlock Holmes was never tentative. Well, except when he was, apparently.

Irene put a hand on his arm, lightly. “Listen, I don’t pretend to understand what’s going on with you two, but it is verging towards the ridiculous.” She turned brisk. “We are having a publication party here this evening. A new American poet. John is attending because his agent also represents the poet. The woman he lives with is out of the country, so he will be on his own.”

Sherlock remembered the woman from the previous party and he didn’t care where she was, although he did briefly wish she would never return. He turned the book over and looked at the author’s photograph on the back cover. John was wearing a suit and tie and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. He wasn’t smiling.

Now Irene gave him a none-to-gentle poke in the arm. “My god, Sherlock, I have no idea of what is happening in that giant brain of yours.”

“That’s probably for the best,” he muttered.

“Come to the party tonight and I’ll do a proper introduction.”

On one hand, that sounded like a ridiculous idea. Introduce them? Why? They knew each other so intimately already that being introduced seemed redundant. On the other hand, he was forced to concede, they hadn’t spoken even a single word to one another, ever, and that seemed a very necessary step to take if they were going to proceed. Which they had to do, of course

It was at that moment, as he toyed rather pleasantly with the idea of actually holding a conversation with John Watson, that a thought struck him, a thought that was so dreadful, so unrelentingly horrible, that he must have gone pale.

Irene grabbed his hand. “Sherlock? What’s the matter?”

But he couldn’t put voice to it, because that might turn an idea into reality. Instead, he pulled his hand free and fled.

Behind him, Irene called out, “Tonight, Sherlock!”

He ignored her and left the shop.

The question was still hammering in his head: What would happen if John Watson did not feel the same sense of connection?

*

 

In the end, John decided that going to the party at the bookstore was better than sitting alone in the flat and thinking about things that were undoubtedly better not thought about. And he had promised Michael that he would turn up.

He refused to consider the possibility that he was only bothering to put on a suit and go to a party about which he actually cared nothing at all, because there was a chance that Sherlock Holmes might be there.

And if he was?

John had never thought of himself as a coward, although he was not going to deny feeling stark fear at times in the trenches. But the fear had never kept him from doing what had to be done. So it was unsettling to realise that he might not have the courage to approach Sherlock Holmes and actually speak to him. Which was ridiculous. When had he ever been afraid of simply speaking with someone? Never was the answer to that and there was no reason why he should feel that way now.

But. 

Twice they had seen one another and both times their eyes had met and locked in a gaze, held there as if by some strange magnetic power. The possible significance of those moments was more than a little frightening.

Frustratingly, John did not even really know why he was afraid and that was perhaps the most frightening thing of all.

 

As it happened, he had no real choice.

He had no sooner walked into the crowded bookshop than Irene was there, one hand on his elbow, guiding him across the room. “What?” he asked. 

“Shut up, John,” she said. “I will not tolerate one more evening of you and Holmes gazing at one another like lovesick puppies.” She paused just for one moment and looked at him. “Or whatever is going on there.”

Who the hell knew? 

John didn’t say that, of course.

Before he could say anything, actually, Irene had stopped and pulled him forward. “John Watson, may I introduce Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is John.” She gave him a push towards the other man. “My work is done. You’re on your own now.” She seemed to give Holmes a glare before moving gracefully away.

John just stood there awkwardly and then [mostly by accident. Possibly.] his eyes met Holmes’ and this third time was no different from the first two. He thought he might just sink into that gaze and vanish and he realised that would be fine. His muscles seemed to act with no input from his brain, because without even thinking about it, his hand came up. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes,” he said.

“At last,” the other man said in a deep, dark voice. “And, please, it’s Sherlock, of course.”

“John,” he said, wanting to ask about the words Sherlock had used. At last. At the same time, he was nervous about asking. He hesitated, but then had to say, “At last?”

They were still looking at one another.

Sherlock frowned. “Don’t be boring and pretend ignorance, John.”

John rather wished he could do that, because, he admitted to himself, this was…well, unsettling. But John was an honest man and he would not deny---although he could not explain---his feelings. “The hospital tent,” he said quietly. “I always thought that it was just a dream. The pain, the drugs…” He shook his head. “I thought the whole thing was a figment of my imagination.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched in what was not quite a smile. “I knew it was real. But---” His gaze drifted away for a moment and then came back. John thought he could see something like surprise in those eyes, as if he had not expected John to still be there, still be looking at him. “I didn’t want to think about it. So I shut the memory into the attic and forgot about it. Except for the dreams, of course.”

John didn’t understand the part about the attic, but that was pretty far down on the list of things he didn’t understand at the moment, so he just let it go.

Someone was passing by with a tray of wine glasses. John reached out and plucked one, which he handed to Sherlock and then a second, which he kept. When they had each taken a sip, John asked, “Why didn’t you want to think about it?”

Sherlock seemed to consider very carefully before speaking. “Do you really want to know?”

“I’ve asked, haven’t I?”

“Because you were gone.” The words were said flatly and not as if they were quite remarkable. As well as rather terrifying.

There was a long pause. The party swirled around them, but John scarcely noticed.

Finally, he sighed and there was something of surrender in the sound. “I kept dreaming of your eyes,” he said in a voice so soft that it seemed like a shameful confession. Which made no sense, because he was not responsible for whatever his sleeping mind conjured up. Was he?

“You, too?”

You, too?

Was everything this man said remarkable?

Sherlock smoothed the front of his cherry red waistcoat. “It’s become rather stuffy in here, don’t you think? I fancy a walk.”

John wondered about that, but then he nodded and said, “Let me just speak to my agent for a moment.”

“Fine. But don’t dawdle, please.” The words were clipped.

John moved with difficulty through the chattering horde, ignoring both Irene’s teasing smile and Sally’s frown, until he reached Michael, who was talking with the poet who was the guest of honour, a thin, slightly twitchy young woman. 

As he talked with Michael about meeting the next day, John’s eyes wandered, watching Sherlock, and because he was watching, he saw a large, obviously inebriated man approach. Still exchanging meaningless words with Michael, he saw the man grab Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock did not seem pleased by the contact, but then John ridiculed himself for the thought. After all, he knew nothing about Holmes. Sherlock. How could he know anything about what he liked?

He absently replied to whatever Michael was saying.

Was Sherlock leaving? It almost looked as if the drunken man was trying to drag him towards the rear of the shop.

John saw immediately that Sherlock was trying to avoid a scene by not resisting against the manhandling. But then his eyes sought out John’s and John knew instantly that Sherlock wanted to take a walk with him, not go anywhere with the lout. And if that were nothing more than a foolish bit of whimsy on John’s part, so be it. Quickly, he promised to have coffee with Michael the next day and bid him a hasty farewell.

Then he made his way much more quickly back through the crowd in the direction Sherlock had gone, down a dark corridor, to a door that opened onto an alley.

“I’ve told you, Trevor,” Sherlock was saying in a bored tone. “I am no longer interested in what you’re offering.”

“You need me and my ‘offerings’,” Trevor said in a raspy voice.

Although they were the same height, Sherlock still managed to look down his nose at the man. “That’s what you never understood. I didn’t need the drugs. I merely wanted them.”

John wasn’t sure he liked this conversation at all.

“And you still want them.”

“No.”

Trevor was shaking his head. “Years,” he muttered. “Years I’ve tried to give you what you wanted, just so…”

“Just so,” Sherlock said crisply. “That was never going to happen, Trevor. I told you so back in ’15 and I told you again here in Paris.” Sherlock’s voice was dripping with disdain and John suddenly felt that he never, ever, wanted to hear Sherlock speak to him in that tone. He might do a great deal to be sure that never happened.

And then he thought that maybe he was a little mad.

“Sherlock,” Trevor said desperately.

“You repulse me. Now move aside and let me---”

Whatever else Sherlock had been planning to say was cut off by the large fist that suddenly slammed into his stomach. Sherlock bent over with a sharp gasp of pain as the man raised his fist for another blow.

Which never connected, because John leapt forward, caught Trevor’s arm, twisted it with all the force he could, and pushed the man into the brick wall.

“What the fuck?”

“Keep your hands to yourself,” John said in a low voice.

“You’re breaking my bloody arm.”

“Good.” John looked over his shoulder. “Are you all right, Sherlock?”

He had straightened and was watching John. “Yes. I’m fine. Thank you.”

John huffed. He shoved Trevor once again and then released him. “Best go,” he said, “before I get angry.”

Foolishly, Trevor decided to debate the issue. “This is not your business.”

“Is it not?” John just looked at him for a moment and something in his face must have convinced Trevor, because he turned and walked away.

It was silent in the alley, until Sherlock said, “Idiot. Trevor, I mean,” he added quickly.

“I assumed as much,” John said drily. “You’re really all right? That was quite a punch.”

“Hah. I could have taken him, you know. I am skilled in the art of pugilism and several obscure Eastern methods of self-defence.”

“Of course you are.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said more softly. “We were going to walk, I believe.”

 

And so they walked.

Sometimes they talked and sometimes they were quiet, but there was nothing awkward in the conversation or uncomfortable about the silences. When they did talk, it was about nothing in particular. John told him what had happened after the hospital tent in France. Sherlock talked about the paintings he had done and the exhibition about to open.

It was very late by the time Sherlock cleared his throat. “I know you heard the conversation with Trevor.”

“Not really any of my business,” John said, although for some reason he didn’t think that was actually the truth.

“The cocaine…I don’t do that anymore.”

“That’s good. That’s very good.”

“I didn’t think you would approve.”

John had no idea what to say to that, so he said nothing.

It was dawn by the time they paused on one of the bridges over the Seine. Side by side, they looked down at the grey morning water. “Sherlock,” John said finally, “what is happening?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Fate, I think.”

John shot him a glance. “Do you even believe in fate?” he scoffed.

Again, Sherlock did not answer quickly. “I never did,” he said finally. “Until that moment in France. I looked into your eyes and I thought here is my destiny.”

John was confused. And frightened again. What did this man mean by the things he said? “But that was ten years ago.”

“Yes.” Sherlock looked at him with silver-green eyes turned molten liquid. “You were a long time arriving here, John.”

It was clear that by ‘here’, Sherlock did not actually mean Paris.

“Jesus,” John muttered. Inside his head, the fear took over. What was he doing here? This was not his life. His life was back in the tiny flat with Mary. “I have to go,” he said in a raspy voice.

Sherlock reached out towards him, but John stepped back. “No. This is too much. I can’t…”

He turned around and walked away quickly, leaving Sherlock Holmes standing alone on the bridge over the Seine.

 

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Sixteen: As Though Of Hemlock


	16. As Though of Hemlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is surrounded by idiots. As usual. Except this time, he might be in love with one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So far the connection is working, at least when I want to post! Fingers still crossed.

My heart aches and a drowsy  
numbness pains my sense, as  
though of hemlock I had drunk.

-John Keats

 

“Non, non, non!” Sherlock whirled around and glared daggers at Lestrade. “Do you make it a policy to hire only idiots? Is it because they work cheaply? Or are you just doing a kindness by employing those who otherwise would not find work because THEY ARE IDIOTS!”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” Lestrade snapped. “It is not their fault, nor is it my fault, come to that. You are the one who suddenly showed up with a last minute addition to the exhibit.”

Sherlock just scowled at him. “I want it there! An hour ago I told you that I wanted it in that spot.”

Lestrade sighed and then walked over to the gallery workers to pacify them.

Sherlock clutched his head in both hands for a moment and then dropped heavily into a nearby chair. He knew very well that the real reason for his mood had nothing at all to do with the way they were hanging the show, [Although he did want the portrait of John right in the center, as he had been telling them---loudly---for what seemed like forever. Or for at least an hour.]

No, his nerves were scraped raw and his thoughts kept skittering off into a million different directions not because of anything Lestrade and his lackeys were doing, but because Sherlock Holmes was afraid. [Afraid? Yes. There was no sense denying it.] He was frightened because it was beginning to seem as if that portrait might be all he would ever have of John Watson and that thought was devastating. He knew that he would never forget the feeling he’d had watching the other man walk away two nights ago, leaving him alone on that bridge.

And since then, nothing.

He had not wanted to be the one reaching out, trying to mend the situation, assuming it could even be mended. John had walked away and so it made sense that John should be the one to walk back and apologise. Which was not to say that at least a dozen times a day he didn’t have to quell the impulse to seek John out and beg, if that was what it took for John to talk to him again.

And it was all so stupid, ineffably and annoyingly stupid, because he knew that John was as entranced with him as he was with John. He only paused for a moment to contemplate the idea of a Holmes being anything as ordinary as ‘entranced’ with another human being. Immediately he recognised that it didn’t matter. In fact, he decided that if John Watson suddenly appeared right here in front of him he would not hesitate to say, “I am entranced with you.” He would drag him so deeply into the mind palace that John would not be able to find his way out again, even if he wanted to.

Then he wondered if perhaps this was some kind of cocaine flashback.

An instant later, he decided even if it were that didn’t matter either..

They were fated. It was destiny.

Although he did rather question a destiny that had landed him with an idiot like John Watson. Who walked away.

Sherlock wanted to be angry.

But instead, he was frightened and, apparently, fear caused him to yell at hapless French laborers.

After a few minutes, Lestrade walked over to where he sat. “Is that what you want?”

Sherlock raised his head and looked at the painting, where it was now hanging, in the position of most prominence. “Yes,” he said softly. “That is what I want. Thank you. Took you long enough to get it right.”

Lestrade only looked at him for a moment. “It’s him, isn’t it? From the party that night?”

Sherlock gave the smallest of nods in response.

“So you knew him during the war?”

Well, there were so many answers that could be given to that apparently simple question. “I saw him that day,” Sherlock finally said, with a nod towards the painting. “In the hospital tent. That was all.”

“And you remembered him?”

If the word idiot had not been over-used already this day Sherlock would have uttered it again. Had Lestrade not seen John at the party? Had he looked at the painting at all? “Of course I remembered him,” was all he said. Abruptly, it was all too much. Too much to bear for even a moment longer. He jumped up and headed for the door.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade yelled after him. “We’re not finished here.”

“Oh, do what you like.” He just barely paused. “Except don’t touch---”

“We won’t. Make sure you turn up for the opening.”

It might have been a wave Sherlock gave him as he vanished through the door.

Once out on the pavement, he paused for a moment to take a deep breath.

I knew him, was what he had wanted to say to Lestrade. I knew him immediately and better than I have ever known anyone else. Better than I have ever wanted to know anyone else.

And in that same moment, he knew me.

All of that was what he’d wanted to say.

But maybe none of it was true. In fact, how could it be true, because if it were, why had John walked away? He should not have been able to walk away. Sherlock could not have done so. In some ways, it felt as if he were still standing on that bridge, watching in utter disbelief as John left him.

Sherlock wondered if perhaps he might be suffering from some previously undiagnosed physical ailment that would explain the almost constant dull ache he was feeling. With one hand, he rubbed at his chest. Fleetingly, he considered the possibility that just a little cocaine might help the situation. But then he rejected that idea viciously.

At least for the moment.

 

He finally took a table at a sidewalk café and ordered a strong black coffee. When the cup was in front of him, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out John’s novel. He was almost two-thirds of his way through the book. It was not often that Sherlock read novels; they were usually a waste of time.

But these were John’s words so they mattered.

//It was a dream. The pain and the drugs had brought me to a state of fantasy and this was what my mind had brought me. His eyes found mine and I was no longer lost. His gaze was warm and I was no longer cold. His stare stayed with me and I was no longer alone.

It was as if an angel were watching over me. I will never forget those eyes.//

“Oh, dear.” An unpleasantly mocking voice broke into his reading. “I would not have thought Sherlock Holmes was the sort of man to indulge in sentimental fiction.” Moriarty dropped into the other chair without being invited to do so.

Sherlock closed the book and set it on the table.

Moriarty noticed the author’s photograph on the back cover. “Ah, I see,” he said with an odd gleefulness in his tone. “That’s the fellow in the portrait I saw in your studio.” He eyed Sherlock. “Perhaps you are more sentimental than I thought.” Then he brightened. “But I’m sure that can be overcome.”

Sherlock wished that he had put the book back into his pocket. “Excuse me,” he said languidly. “I do not remember asking for your opinion of my reading habits. Or of anything else, come to that.”

Moriarty only chuckled, as if he found Sherlock mildly amusing. Then he pushed the book away with a moue of distaste. “I would think that all those ex-soldiers would be over their unhappy experiences by now.”

Sherlock picked the book up and tucked it safely away. “Oh, do you speak from personal experience? Did you serve?”

“Oh, goodness, no. I couldn’t be bothered. There were so many other things demanding my attention.” He toyed with a gold pocket watch. “I have many interests.”

“Indeed. And how is Miss Hooper?”

“Ordinary people are such fun. For a time anyway, until they become so dreadfully boring.” Moriarty’s smile was distinctly unpleasant. “I rather think her Parisian adventure might be coming to an end.”

Sherlock was watching him. Hopefully, he meant that Miss Hooper would be returning to London. Although no doubt with a broken heart. Given what he had already deduced about Moriarty, that could be considered a lucky escape for the silly young woman. “It is rather a shame that you have chosen to channel your obvious intelligence into the grubby world of crime,” Sherlock murmured.

For just a moment, Moriarty looked surprised, then he grinned. “Oh, everything they have said about you is absolutely true. How completely delightful. We are going to have such fun together.”

“Are we indeed?”

“And let me assure you that nothing I do is grubby. Not in the slightest.”

“That would depend upon one’s definition, surely?”

Moriarty opened his watch to check the time, snapped it shut, and replaced it in his pocket. “I want you to do my portrait. Posterity will appreciate it.”

“I’m sure. But if you do know my reputation, you must realise that for a man with so many secrets, and despite your protestations many of them are very grubby, it might be dangerous posing for me.”

“Danger is what makes life interesting.” Moriarty stood. “I’ll be in touch very soon, Sherlock,” he said leaning in too close.

“Finally. Something to live for.” Sherlock’s words were clipped.

With a jaunty wave, Moriarty was gone.

Waiting until the air was free of the vaguely unpleasant memory of Moriarty’s cologne, Sherlock pulled the book from his pocket again. He looked into John’s face and felt himself settle into a sense of calm.

John could not walk away for long. He had to believe that.

Sherlock waved for another coffee and settled down to finish the book.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Seventeen: As Though of Hemlock


	17. A Ribbon At A Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John realises that his life is changing. None too soon. Might even say belatedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I treasure each comment and kudo. Thank you all.

I’ll tell you how the sun  
rose---a ribbon at a time.

-Emily Dickinson

 

John was a complete wreck and he recognised that fact.

He was sleeping very little and that sleep was too often disturbed by dreams that were, by turn, terrifying and erotic. The terror was an old friend by this time, although the specifics of what exactly he was trying to flee from had changed. Oh, he still dreamt of battles, of smoke and noise, and bloody death. But now he was not trying to save Jenkins or Morris or Taylor or any of the nameless casualties he’d fought beside. Now, every corpse he saw bore the same face, a face with sharp-edged cheekbones and oddly coloured eyes that stared blankly at him. Even in the blankness of the gaze, however, there was sadness and accusation and John felt a dreadful sense of failure because he had not saved Sherlock. These dreams brought him awake drenched in sweat and with tears on his face.

It did not take any degree in psychology to know that the guilt was very much related to how he had walked away from Sherlock on the bridge.

But then there were the other dreams.

He had to acknowledge that, despite his best efforts to the contrary, Mary did not feature in these. Sherlock Holmes, however, did. Repeatedly and explicitly.

John was not a stranger to feelings of attraction to other males. After all, he was writing a novel about a schoolboy crush he’d had on his best friend, although there was nothing explicit in the story he was telling. But the societal strictures against such liaisons were so strong, so dangerous, that he had never felt able to act upon his feelings, beyond a few battlefield encounters fueled more by desperation and loneliness than true passion. 

He had already discovered that things were different here in Paris. No one seemed bothered by the old rules. Maybe a new world had been born from the horrors of the war. Maybe there was just something in the air of the Left Bank that allowed him to think of things usually kept hidden away.

Even beyond all of that was his growing realisation that Sherlock Holmes seemed to stand apart from everything John had ever believed or understood about himself.

But it was not actually either the terror or the passion that kept him from sleeping; instead, it was the memory of the look on Sherlock’s face just before John had turned and walked away, leaving him alone on the bridge. The moment played itself out over and over in his mind’s eye and the expression never changed. It reminded him of the look he’d once seen in the eyes of an old hunting dog his father had put down because he was no longer useful. The hound’s soft brown gaze had been filled with the pain of betrayal. With a plea for mercy. With inexpressible sadness.

All of those things had been in Sherlock’s eyes as they’d stood on the bridge at dawn.

It was the memory of that gaze which finally woke John. He rubbed at the dampness in his eyes, groaned, and rolled out of bed. He wandered into the sitting room, still a bit groggy, and found Mary sitting at the table. Her hands were clasping a cup of coffee and she looked tired. There was something a bit off in her gaze as she looked at him. “Hello, John,” she said and there was something a bit off in her voice as well, coating the forced cheer that he suddenly realised had become standard between them.

“Mary,” he replied. “I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

She shrugged. “There was some sort of mix-up with the train tickets.”

John only nodded. He went to the tiny kitchen and poured himself some coffee, then joined her at the table. Only after his first swallow did John realise that he probably should have given Mary a kiss to welcome her back. But he hadn’t and now he thought it would have been awkward to do so. Then he acknowledged that she hadn’t really seemed to expect it.

That was the moment when John accepted that their relationship was effectively over. The death throes had begun a long time before they arrived in Paris, which was not a surprise. They had been so young when they met and the world in such turmoil; it made sense that two needy people had simply been drawn together so easily.

Mary was eying him. “You look worse than I feel and I feel like hell.”

He shrugged.

“So Paris is not being so good for you after all?”

He could not decipher her tone. “Paris is fine,” he said shortly.

Abruptly, his mind fled this claustrophobic room, drawn back to a moon-filled night, quiet conversation, a thrumming energy between two bodies. “Paris is more than I expected,” he said finally.

“That’s good,” Mary said.

They finished their coffee in silence.

 

He worked until late in the afternoon, although most of the time was spent tearing paper into numerous tiny bits. He ended the afternoon with just two pages that he didn’t absolutely hate and decided to quit while he was, if not ahead, at least not going backwards. Mary had taken herself off earlier, with some explanation of follow-up interviews for her Russian story.

She had not returned by the time he decided to take a walk in the descending twilight. He donned a cap and set off.

Without really intending to do so, at least consciously, he soon found himself standing on the pavement outside of Lestrade’s art gallery. It was closed so that the final preparations could be made for the opening of Sherlock’s show in just a couple of hours. The front window was still covered. John tried to peer through a break in the curtains, but he could really not see anything. He felt a bit silly for trying.

He was startled when the door suddenly opened and a tall, silver-haired man in a natty suit appeared. “Mr. Watson, isn’t it?” he asked.

Embarrassed and wondering how the man knew who he was, John nodded. “Yes, sorry, I wasn’t really intending to---”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. You’re rather a guest of honor, anyway.”

John had no idea what that was supposed to mean.

“I’m Gregory Lestrade,” the man said, holding out his hand.

“Nice to meet you,” John said as they shook.

“You’re a bit early.”

“Oh, I’m not…I mean…”

Lestrade just grinned. “Would you like a preview?”

John really wanted to say ‘yes, please’, because he was honestly rather desperate to see Sherlock’s work. But whether he was ready to actually see Sherlock was another question.

“Oh, come along,” Lestrade said. “You can have a good look around before anyone else arrives. Even the artist isn’t here yet.”

That news relaxed John a bit and he followed Lestrade into the gallery. They walked past a table obviously intended to serve as a makeshift bar and then Lestrade touched his arm and turned him to the wall. All the breath seemed to rush out of John’s body when he saw the painting.

“This is his newest piece. Finished it just in time to hang. Did you know he had done it?”

John just shook his head. There were no words.

“Take your time,” Lestrade said, sounding sympathetic and then John was vaguely aware of the sound made by retreating footsteps as the other man left him alone.

John stared at the portrait of the wounded soldier, feeling strangely as if he were seeing it through two sets of eyes. He remembered the event, could still feel the pain, the sickness from the drugs, the fear that maybe he would die. At the same time, he looked at the painting as if it were someone else portrayed, because how could that man, from that time and place, now be standing here in this gallery in Paris?

He had no idea how long he stood there.

Finally, a low voice interrupted his thoughts. “You haunted me,” Sherlock whispered into his ear. “You still haunt me.”

John turned.

Sherlock was dressed in another black suit, this time paired with a lemon yellow shirt and a blue satin waistcoat. His hair was an artful mess. John decided that he was undoubtedly the most remarkable creature on the planet. “You should know, John Watson, that I am not a man given to the expression of such sentiments. You will not hear them often. But just to prove how serious I am, once more I will tell you this. You have haunted me since that day and you still do.”

“I’m sorry,” John said.

Sherlock seemed to fight a small smile. “For being a ghost in my life? Not your fault, really.”

John shook his head. “No, not for that. I’m sorry I walked away the other night.”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment. “Well, yes, that was definitely your fault.”

John turned to look at the portrait again. “I was…frightened. And I know that sounds ridiculous.”

“No,” Sherlock said. “It doesn’t. Do you think I wasn’t? Do you think I am not still terrified as I stand here next to you?”

John glanced around, but they were alone. Lestrade was discreet, apparently. “I just don’t understand what’s happening.”

“And you imagine that I do? I only know that when I first saw you, in that tent ten years ago, something happened. And it never left me.”

John wasn’t ready to talk about that yet. “Thank you for that,” he said instead, giving a nod towards the painting.

“I had to do it.”

John glanced at his watch. “I better go.”

“You could stay.”

He shook his head. “Not dressed for it. Not…ready for it. And it’s your night.” He stared at Sherlock and spoke firmly. “But I am not walking away. You understand that, right?”

Sherlock waved away the words. “Of course. You’re an idiot, well, every one is, but at least you’re not idiotic enough to do that twice.” Sherlock’s voice was brisk, but his eyes were liquid platinum.

John touched his arm lightly. “Enjoy yourself.”

“Ugh.” Sherlock made a face. “I hate these things. But I am proud of the work.”

“You should be.”

Sherlock bent his head closer. “John,” he said in a mere breath.

John only sighed in response.

Then he left.

 

The flat was empty when he got back. Which was for the best, really, because he definitely did not have the energy for any conversation this night.

Much later, when Mary came in, undressed silently and got into bed, he pretended to be asleep. She seemed contented with that.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Eighteen: Stirs The Culprit


	18. Stirs The Culprit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the exhibition. Moriarty is a bastard.

Surgeons must be very careful  
when they take up the knife!  
Underneath their fine incisions  
stirs the culprit---Life!

-Emily Dickinson

 

Sherlock made himself a cup of tea and went to drink it standing in front of the window that looked down onto the busy road below.

Under usual circumstances, he would have been thinking about the opening of his exhibition the night before, rather basking in the universal praise his paintings had garnered. Even the London Times had sent a critic and the man had been effusive in his praise. Not that the opinions of idiots mattered to him, but Sherlock cared more about his work than he ever let on. So, all in all, the opening had gone very well and many paintings were already sold.

But as he sipped his tea, all Sherlock could really think about was what had happened before the reception had even started. His conversation with John. The words they’d shared had been tentative, yes, but so promising. Exactly what was being promised was not yet entirely clear, but Sherlock thought he was fine with that. As long as John did not---ever---walk away again, Sherlock would be fine with almost everything.

It was more than slightly ironic that a man who always needed to know everything, to understand every detail, did not have any idea what it was that had inextricably bound him to John Watson in the matter of a few seconds a decade ago. He accepted that he did not know, perhaps would never know and he also accepted that it did not matter. His brother and mother would have been shocked to hear such a thing. He did not care about that either.

Sherlock would have been content to spend the rest of the day just standing here, watching the insignificant rest of the world pass beneath the window as he replayed every word of last night’s conversation. Sadly, that was not how his morning was destined to go, of which he was reminded when he saw James Moriarty walking towards the studio. He frowned at the sight. The man strutted along like the lone cock in a chicken run. Sherlock was already regretting that he had decided to produce the portrait that Moriarty seemed so keen to have. He didn’t find the man agreeable in the slightest, not that he ever really found anyone agreeable [with one notable exception] but neither did he trust Moriarty.

And yet there were things he wanted---needed---to know and the best way to discover all of the secrets the odious little man was hiding was to paint his portrait and deduce them all for himself.

Mycroft had always said that his insatiable curiosity would bring him to grief one day and, honestly, Sherlock did not disagree with that assessment. But as with so much of what his brother said, he ignored the warning. He could not change his nature.

He heard Moriarty on the steps and, with a sigh, drained the teacup before turning to face him.

“Good morning, Holmes,” Moriarty said and even those few words seemed to be imbued with, well, what? Sly innuendo? Encroaching darkness? A sharp and dangerous edge?

Sherlock only nodded.

“You are the talk of Paris this morning,” Moriarty went on. “So I suppose it is an honour that you have chosen to spend some time with me.” He gave a mocking half-bow. “I am honoured.”

“Do you have the cheque?” Sherlock asked briskly. Payment upfront, as always.

Moriarty gave him a look of amusement and then handed him the paper. “As promised. You’ll find I always keep my promises.”

“Sit there, please. Today I will simply be making preliminary sketches.”

Moriarty was now grinning. “So business like.”

“It is a business.”

“No time for the ridiculous social niceties of polite society,” Moriarty said approvingly. “A man after my own heart. If I had one.”

“Or if I were at all interested in it,” Sherlock snapped. “Sit, please.”

Moriarty finally arranged himself in the straight-backed wooden chair. “I have great expectations of this,” he said, fussily adjusting his silk pocket square. 

Sherlock had his pencils arranged just as he liked them. He took one in his fingers and stared at Moriarty. Sometimes people who sat for him were made uncomfortable by being observed so intently, but Moriarty just gazed back at him with an almost equal amount of intensity.

Sherlock frowned and then made the first mark on the paper.

“Your brother must be pleased that you have given up the cocaine finally,” Moriarty said casually.

There was so much wrong with that remark that Sherlock’s hand gave an almost imperceptible hitch as he drew. He said nothing.

“Although,” Moriarty went on thoughtfully, “he will probably not be best pleased to find out that you have replaced that addiction with one even more dangerous.”

Without intending to, Sherlock said, “And what might that addiction be?” He was pleased that his voice sounded just as it should have done, bored and disdainful.

“Oh, please, Holmes, don’t play the fool with me. Have you forgotten that I saw the portrait? It received especially high words of praise in the press. The rather uncharacteristic emotional resonance was commented on.”

Sherlock’s fingers tightened on the pencil. “That is none of your business,” he said sharply.

“Oh, dear, have I touched a nerve?”

“Stop talking,” Sherlock ordered.

Moriarty just gave a low hum in response.

For several minutes the only sound in the room was the soft rasp of his pencils against the tooth of the paper as Sherlock completed several quick sketches. As he worked, the darkness that he saw in Moriarty’s nature was so blatant that Sherlock could not help but wonder why people did not simply flee screaming from him in the street.

A small voice [that sounded like Mycroft, as usual] told Sherlock to stop drawing now and send Moriarty on his way. He didn’t need this commission, didn’t even want it, really.

But at the same time, it was undoubtedly fascinating to peel away each layer of Moriarty’s repugnant nature. Most of the people whose images he committed to canvas were so painfully dull, despite their secrets. Whatever else he might be, Moriarty was definitely not boring.

Before anything more could be said by either man, Sherlock heard the downstairs door open, followed by the sound of slow, hesitant footsteps coming up. It felt as if something seized in his chest when he realised who it was.

He almost missed the smirk that crossed Moriarty’s face and abruptly he wished that John had waited just a little longer to arrive, long enough that Moriarty would be gone.

But it was too late now.

A moment later the door opened and John hesitantly stepped into the room.

“Ahh, the brave soldier arrives,” Moriarty said so softly that only Sherlock could hear.

John grimaced. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you were---I’ll go.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock said briskly. “Come in. I’ve finished with the sketches for today and so Mr. Moriarty was about to leave.”

Moriarty, however, showed no sign of going anywhere. Instead, his gaze moved slowly over John in a way that was both disdainful and dismissive, yet oddly possessive at the same time. Sherlock had no idea what it was supposed to mean, but it made him grit his teeth all the same. “Come in,” he repeated, sharply this time.

John finally did so. He nodded towards Moriarty. “John Watson,” he said crisply.

“Of course you are,” Moriarty replied, sounding amused again.

Sherlock was putting hiss pencils away in their proper order. “That is James Moriarty,” he said. “An important man, if only in his own eyes. The rest of the world has yet to pass judgment.”

Clearly Moriarty did not like that. “In due time,” he said. Then he finally stood, straightening his tie and tugging his cuffs into place.

Sherlock turned his attention solely to John, unable to keep from feeling a certain sense of amazement that John Watson was actually standing in his studio. He had a horrible feeling that he might even be smiling just a bit.

John’s lips turned up as well. “I wanted to congratulate you on the exhibition. I understand it went very well.”

“Dull,” Sherlock said, more from habit than anything else.

He was only vaguely aware of Moriarty moving around the studio, but ignored him, moving instead to the worktable and dropping the sketches there.

John walked over to stand beside him. “You think everything is dull,” he pointed out lightly.

“Not everything,” Sherlock murmured, wondering how long he could just stare into John’s eyes.

At that moment, an explosion of sound filled the room. An instant later, John was huddled under the worktable, shaking and gasping with fear.

Sherlock whipped around and saw Moriarty, who had an expression of exaggerated surprise on his face. The empty metal easel that had been leaning against the wall was now on the floor. “How clumsy of me,” Moriarty said.

Sherlock ignored his words, instead crouching down on the floor and looking at John. “It’s all right,” he said firmly. “You’re safe.”

John was already calming.

Sherlock reached out and put a careful hand on his knee. Even though the moment was far from ideal, he could not help realising that this was the first time he had touched John so intimately. He didn’t say anything else, just stayed there, holding on, as John took several deep breaths.

It wasn’t long before he started to look embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

Sherlock’s fingers tightened. “Don’t say that. Ever.”

After another moment, John crawled out and stood. Sherlock rose as well, sorry to lose the grip he’d had on John.

Moriarty wandered over. “So sorry,” he drawled. “Please don’t feel the least bit humiliated.”

Sherlock liked the way John’s shoulders straightened as he glared at Moriarty. Then he looked back at Sherlock. “I’m going,” he said, starting for the door.

“John--?” Sherlock said, not liking the unexpected panic that started to rise in his throat.

John paused and spoke softly. “Not walking away,” he said.

“All right.”

When the door to the street had closed, Sherlock turned to stare at Moriarty. “You’re a bastard,” he said harshly.

“I don’t recall claiming otherwise,” Moriarty said cheerfully. “And perhaps the old saw is true: It takes one to know one.” He peered down at the sketches. “Oh, I am pleased. And looking forward to our next session.” Then he glanced at Sherlock. “And so are you, because you are dying to know all my secrets.” His voice lowered. “We are the same, Sherlock Holmes, and I feel sure that the future will be very interesting for both of us.”

Then, with a jaunty wave, Moriarty left.

Sherlock walked across the room to carefully set the fallen easel back where it belonged. Moriarty was right about one thing; he did want to know all the other man’s secrets. Probably Mycroft was quite right to worry about this need he had to understand everything. It was sometimes dangerous, but he really couldn’t help himself.

He would just have to keep Moriarty away from John.

He lit a cigarette and returned to the window, thinking about John, wishing he would come back so that Sherlock could explain why he had to stay. Forever.

Whatever else happened, John had to stay.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Nineteen: A Waking Dream


	19. A Waking Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John deals with Mary. And Sherlock. And Moriarty. A bit of a stressful day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this is a bit late posting, but I have been off to see the Sherlock Holmes exhibition at the Museum of London. Great fun with lots of interesting things to see. They have the coat! Sadly, it is in a glass case, spoiling our plan to stroke it. Or possibly sniff it. For the best, no doubt. But the collar was up...
> 
> Hope you think the chapter was worth waiting a bit for.

Hope is a waking dream.

-Aristotle

 

John was beginning to wonder if he would ever again wake naturally from a night’s sleep or if every morning for the rest of his life was going to start with either gasping, choking fear or the damp and hot memory of dream sex.

In the beginning, each sort of awakening had been terrifying in its own way.

But now he was quite aware that he welcomed the days which began with the image of dark curls pressed against his chest and long, slender fingers caressing his prick. Instead of alarming him, it all seemed like the most natural thing in the world. As if it were, somehow, meant to happen.

Whenever that thought struck him, he thought that he could see a pair of otherworldly eyes brighten.

All of which was not to say that he didn’t feel some guilt, because he did. But he also thought that anyone would be an idiot not to prefer waking up with the image of lovemaking in his mind rather than the images of the death and blood he’d seen in the trenches. 

“John Watson, you are quite absurd,” he muttered rolling over in bed. Mary’s side was empty and he could hear the click-clack of typewriter keys from the other room.

He knew that they had to talk soon, but he did not yet know how to start the conversation. So, instead, he went to wash and dress for the day.

“There’s coffee,” Mary said when he walked into the room where she was still typing.

“Thanks,” he said, wondering idly when they had stopped greeting one another with a morning kiss. They were both such different people than they had been a decade before. Those two had been children. He poured himself a cup of coffee and then joined her at the table.

Mary kept typing, but otherwise the room was silent.

John opened his mouth a couple of times, but nothing emerged. It was when he realised that he was watching her fingers dance across the keyboard while thinking of Sherlock that he swallowed the rest of his coffee in a gulp and stood. “I need a walk,” he announced.

“You’ll soon be quite fit if you keep walking around Paris so much,” Mary said. Was there an edge to her voice?

“Yes, well, it helps me to think.”

She stopped typing just for a moment and studied him. “How is the book coming along?”

“Fine,” he said. “Just fine.”

He was at the door when she spoke again. “I think we need to talk,” she said.

“Fine,” he said. “Later.” 

Then he left.

 

An hour later, he was sitting at what had quickly become his favorite café, drinking a cup of much better coffee than had been available at the flat, and half-heartedly enjoying the sunshine.

Despite what he’d said, it wasn’t really fine, of course. None of his life was fine.

Not the new book, which was nowhere near as finished as it should have been by this time. He struggled every time he sat down to write.

Perhaps Michael was correct and he was just a fool for insisting on writing it. Maybe it was old-fashioned. Sentimental. Pointless. It had been the ideal novel for the boy he’d been at Oxford to write, but perhaps not for the man he now was.

Of course, now he did not even really know who he was.

Other than a man whose relationship was falling [had already fallen] apart and whose muse had fled. And a man who was lurching towards a different life, one he did not really understand, one he was frightened by, and yet it was a life he could not resist. Did not want to resist.

“John.”

Not for the first time, he’d been too lost in thought to even notice Sherlock’s approach, until the other man spoke in that unmistakable voice. He looked up into the face that he’d been dreaming of only hours earlier. “Sherlock,” he said, glad that his voice did not reveal his inner turmoil. Although undoubtedly Sherlock already knew about it.

“May I?” Sherlock asked, gesturing at the empty chair.

“Of course.” John had the feeling that he would have said the same thing no matter what question Sherlock had asked. Was it any wonder this was all so frightening?

Once he was seated and had a coffee in front of him, Sherlock leaned back in the chair and smiled.

John thought that he could get used to seeing that smile across the table in the morning and then he thought that possibly he was losing his mind. “What?” he said.

Sherlock shrugged. “Nothing. I’m just glad to see you. I was worried about you after---”

John didn’t want to talk about that; it had been a long time since he’d had an attack as bad. It was stark proof of his current emotional chaos. “Sorry,” he muttered.

The smile disappeared, which was a shame. “Never apologise for that. I told you that once already and I loathe repeating myself.”

John started to speak and then realised that another ‘sorry’ was about to emerge, so he just nodded instead. A moment later, he said, “I did not much care for your friend Moriarty,” he said carefully.

“Moriarty is a client, not a friend,” Sherlock said sharply. “I do not have ‘friends’.”

John thought briefly about objecting to that statement, but he couldn’t even convince himself that whatever was going on between them was simply friendship. “Well, no matter. I still didn’t like him.”

“And you shouldn’t. James Moriarty is a reprehensible creature.

John studied him, slightly troubled by something in Sherlock’s voice.  
“But--?” he said.

Sherlock was not looking at him. “He’s interesting.”

Something twisted a bit inside John’s chest, although he didn’t know what it was. “Interesting?”

“Life is so boring, John,” Sherlock said and there seemed to be actual pain in the words. Then he grimaced. “Why are we wasting our time talking about him?”

“What would you rather talk about?”

Instead of answering with words, Sherlock just waved a hand between the two of them.

“Ahh.”

Sherlock frowned. “You’re not still denying this, are you, John? Because that is about to get boring.” He must have seen something on John’s face. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. I said that the way you have been behaving is boring, not you. Never you.”

“Never is a very long time, Sherlock,” John said, putting voice to a fear that he hadn’t even realised was living inside of him.

In that moment, something changed in Sherlock’s face. His eyes softened; his entire expression seemed suddenly painfully young and vulnerable. “Not long enough,” he said quietly. He reached across the table and touched John’s hand lightly, quickly. “Never long enough.”

John wondered if he were ever going to breathe again. After an endless moment, he managed to do so. Then, he said, “What are we going to do, Sherlock?” It was almost harsh, the way he said it, but the words were also heartfelt.

Sherlock took a careful sip of his coffee. “Shall I tell you what I am thinking?”

“Please do.”

After a moment, Sherlock leaned across the table, staring intently at John. “Although, you already know, don’t you? I want us to be together. I want to live with you and I don’t want anyone else in our life. I want to paint and watch you write. If it were possible in this misbegotten world, I would announce to everyone that I love you. I would bind myself to you in front of the entire world. I want…” He paused and then lowered his voice. “I want to make love to you. Even more, I want you to make love to me.” Then he pulled back, swallowed the rest of his coffee and smiled faintly. “Finally, I want to do all of that until the day I die. And just in case you were wondering, I have never said these words to another person and I never will.”

Again, John found himself speechless, not to say breathless. He was also barely able to restrain himself from leaping across the table and grabbing the impossible being that was Sherlock Holmes, grabbing and holding on as if his life depended upon it. He was beginning to think that it did.

But then Sherlock sobered. “That is what I want. But as for what will happen…well, John, that is entirely up to you. I have told you what I hope will happen, what will be our life together. But the decision is yours.”

“Sherlock,” John said brokenly. “I just have to think. Ever since we met, I have been unable to really think. But I do want---”

Sherlock raised a hand to interrupt what he’d been about to say. “Please don’t say anything now, John. Not until you are sure.” His voice dropped into an even deeper register. “If we started and then you changed your mind that would finish me.” He stood abruptly. “Take the time you need.” It seemed as if there were more he wanted to say, but he only rested a hand on John’s shoulder for just a fleeting moment. And then he was gone.

John watched him walk away and it was all he could do not to call him back.

Before he could do anything at all, however, someone else dropped into the chair. “Oh, poor Watson,” Moriarty said. “You do realise, don’t you, that it will never happen, no matter what he says now? An ordinary mind like yours could never hold his attention for very long.”

John just stared at him.

Moriarty sighed, as if trying to explain this to him was tedious. “Sherlock Holmes has the potential to be great, but that potential must be nurtured and encouraged. Directed properly and most definitely not squandered on some foolish and mundane sentimental attachment. I will be the one to guide him to the life he should be leading..”

John finally spoke. “I think you should mind your own bloody business, Moriarty.” His voice was flat.

“Holmes is my business,” the other man said in an icy voice. “And you would do well to remember that.” He stood, leaning down to John, and speaking softly. “I will never let you corrupt him with sentiment or whatever it is you’re offering. Someone will die first and it must be said that I don’t care very much who it is.”

While John was still absorbing what the maniac was saying, Moriarty walked away.

It took him a few minutes, but then John realised how angry he was. More angry than he could ever remember being in his life.

The anger strengthened him. Ironically, by interfering as he had, Moriarty had achieved just the opposite of what he had intended.

And no matter his words, no matter what he threatened, what could he do in reality? The man was clearly insane. Sherlock, who noticed everything, surely had to know that.

As for John, he had much more important things to think about.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Twenty: The Greater Griefs


	20. The Greater Griefs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does Mycroft ever go home? At last, John understands himself and want he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, folks. Hope you are still enjoying this. 
> 
> As for me, in a short while I will be leaving for the House of Commons and a dinner with the Sherlock Holmes Society of London.
> 
> A theme seems to be emerging to this trip.

The greater griefs are  
those we cause ourselves.

-Sophocles

 

Sherlock was still in his blue dressing gown, doing nothing save stare out at Paris in the rather murky sunshine, as he contemplated the effort involved in making a cup of tea, which he quite wanted. Then he heard the downstairs door open and frowned. One day, he decided viciously, I will change that bloody lock. Or set the door to explode.

All he could do at the moment, however, was throw himself down onto his well-used sofa and glare. As usual.

Mycroft glided into the studio, the familiar unctuous smile fixed in place. He pretended not to notice the glare. As usual. “Brother dear,” he said. “You look well.”

Sherlock sneered.

“I’m quite sincere, you know.”

“I was unaware you knew the meaning of the word.” Sherlock reached for his cigarettes, but then realised that his lighter was still in the bedroom, so he set the silver case down again. “Why are you back in Paris? Or are you now running the French government in addition to the British one?”

The fake smile twitched. “Oh, you are very droll first thing in the morning, aren’t you?”

Sherlock really wished that he had managed a cup of tea before being forced into this encounter. And then, from nowhere, a stray thought occurred. John Watson probably made good tea; there was no evidence of that, of course, but he seemed like the type. [There was no evidence of that either, Sherlock acknowledged ruefully. But he still believed it.] Instead of listening to whatever Mycroft was saying, he let his mind muse upon how pleasant it would be to start his morning with John handing him a cup of perfectly brewed tea. It would be the right temperature, with the correct amount of sugar [two lumps] and milk [just a splash]. John, he decided, would just know how he liked his tea without even being told.  
That was all ridiculously fanciful, he knew, so very much out of character for him. But, nevertheless, it still sounded like a very good way to start every morning. For the rest of his life.

“I do not quite know what to make of the expression on your face, Sherlock.”

The sound of Mycroft’s voice finally pulled him from the daydream. Sherlock blinked once and then blanked his face. “You needn’t feel obligated to make anything of it at all,” he snapped.

Mycroft’s gaze was far more knowing than Sherlock would have wished.

“What do you want anyway?” Sherlock asked sharply.

Instead of answering, Mycroft walked around to the front of the easel. When he saw the work in progress, he frowned. His frowns were always so much more sincere than his smiles. “Well, I confess that this is worrying. I had hoped that my information was in error, but apparently it was all too true.”

Pretending to be far more relaxed than he actually was, Sherlock stretched his legs out to their full length and crossed his ankles. “What information is that?” he asked idly, not caring in the slightest, but knowing that his brother would not leave until he had said what he’d come to say.

“You are associating with James Moriarty.”

Sherlock continued to feign disinterest, although his interest had, indeed, been piqued. “Associating? I am merely fulfilling a commission. That is what I do. There is not much ‘associating’ going on. No more than strictly necessary.”

“Meeting him in cafes? Is that part of your commission?”

“Are you ever going to stop spying on me?”

Mycroft ignored that. The only real sign of his agitation was the relentless tap-tapping of the tip of his brolly against the paint-splattered wooden floor. “Do you imagine that he really cares at all about having his bloody portrait done?” Mycroft never swore. “Sherlock, Moriarty never does anything without having at least half-a-dozen motivating factors.”

Sherlock was genuinely amused. “Tell me, Mycroft,” he said, “are you the pot or the kettle in that scenario?”

“I am deadly serious,” Mycroft snapped.

Sherlock snorted at his brother in the same way he had been doing since age five. “Please. If you think that I do not know exactly what James Moriarty is, you badly underestimate me.”

“I never do that, Sherlock. The problem is that you occasionally have a bit too much confidence in your own cleverness. Clever you are. Infallible you are not.” Mycroft leaned in for a closer look at the drawing. “Moriarty is not an ordinary criminal. His is a twisted, brilliant mind. As skilled as you are at uncovering people’s secrets, Moriarty is equally skilled at keeping hidden those things he wants to hide. He reveals only that which he wants others to know.”

Sherlock studied Mycroft. “Why are you so concerned? What is the government’s interest in a clever criminal?”

Mycroft took one more look at the drawing and then walked over to stand in front of Sherlock. “Because that man is not simply a clever criminal. He is creating a vast network of corruption that touches every continent. Murder, blackmail, trafficking of women for immoral purposes. Drugs and weapons. Name an abomination and James Moriarty is involved. Not to mention his unsettling ties with various political groups on the continent.”

“I also find him to be unbearably rude, if you would like to add that to your file,” Sherlock said languidly. He kept to himself how angry he’d become when Moriarty had so cruelly tried to humiliate John, because that would reveal far too much to Mycroft.

John was his. Neither Mycroft nor Moriarty could be allowed to interfere.

Mycroft still seemed oddly unsettled, which was quite uncharacteristic. “I don’t suppose that you would cancel the commission? Return whatever no doubt excessive fee he has paid and remove James Moriarty from your life?”

“That doesn’t sound like something I would do,” Sherlock agreed lightly.

“Then you must be very careful, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice was intensely serious, in a way that Sherlock could not remember ever hearing before.

Sherlock looked at him, feeling just a faint tremor of something that might have been apprehension. It was a little bit too much like fear for comfort and so he shook it off. He could handle Moriarty. “I’ll be fine, Mycroft,” he said impatiently.

“I hope so. Mummy would be distraught if anything happened to you.”

“Huh,” Sherlock said disdainfully. “Just think how much the value of the family collection would increase.” Suddenly bored, he gave a dismissive wave. “Goodbye, Mycroft,” he said.

Still frowning, Mycroft slowly turned and left the studio.

Sherlock remained where he was, listening as the footsteps faded and the door closed. Alone finally, he went into the tiny kitchen and made some tea. As he stood at the window again and drank slowly, Sherlock thought about how much better it would be when John was making tea for him. Everything would be better.

He refused to consider the possibility that his life might not turn out that way.

Abruptly, Sherlock knew what he had to do this morning.

*

 

John was not overly surprised to receive a note from Michael Stamford saying that he was in still in Paris, but would soon be on his way to Berlin, and wanted a chat with him before leaving. Would lunch today be agreeable? If so, would he please come to the Hotel Meurice at 13:00?

With a sigh, John scribbled a quick note of agreement and gave it to the messenger boy, along with a coin.

He was alone in the flat, which was the natural order of things now, it seemed. Probably he ought to be more bothered about that than he was, but his thoughts were too much in another direction. It seemed obvious that both Mary and he knew that their time together was coming to a close, but the same sense of apathy that had actually kept them together for at least the last five years was now keeping them from even talking about the situation.

Uppermost in his mind now was the question of when he would see Sherlock again. They had made no definite plans, which seemed rather appropriate in the circumstance. Trying to pin Sherlock down was like attempting to capture a fantastical creature of light and smoke.

Surprisingly, John realised that he was fine with that, although he was not sure what it said about his current mental state. Sherlock did not fit into any of the familiar boxes in which John had lived his life before they’d met.

At any rate, these days he was only ever relieved when he found himself alone in the flat.

John sat at the table with his typewriter until it was time to dress for lunch and, amazingly, actually managed to produce a few pages as proof to Stamford that he really was working. Then he donned another of the new suits he’d purchased for the move to Paris, this one a deep navy colour, and matched it with a tie of the same shade.

The perfect picture of a successful author.

Precisely on time, John walked into the Meurice and was immediately overwhelmed by the elaborate Louis XVI décor. He felt very much an interloper amongst the upper crust clientele, even in his new suit. Nervously, he smoothed the front of the jacket.

It occurred to him that Sherlock would fit right in with this crowd, while he himself never really would, no matter how many books he wrote or how much money he made.

John Watson was still really just a scholarship boy and how could someone like Sherlock Holmes find him of any interest at all? Maybe Moriarty had a point.

All of those gloomy thoughts raced through his mind, as he walked across the dining room and they put John in a rough mood by the time he reached the table. There, Stamford was waiting, a half-finished drink in front of him. John realised that Stamford had gained weight and that his face was a rather alarming shade of red, things he had not noticed the other night.

But his agent gave him the usual bright smile, the same one he had given all those years ago in a trench in France. “Paris suits you, my friend,” he said cheerfully as they shook hands. Then he waved John into the other chair.

“Does it?” John replied. “A whisky, please,” he added to the hovering waiter.

Stamford nodded. “You look happier. Or more relaxed. Something.”

It was funny that Stamford thought he looked happier, because his insides were a tumult of riotous emotions. He sipped the whisky.

Stamford was still looking at him. “So the move has worked out? You and Mary back on track, are you?”

John was surprised. He had not been aware that it had been so obvious in London that the relationship was teetering. But if Stamford [very good at his job, perhaps less so in understanding other people] had noticed, then the cracks must have been even bigger than they seemed at the time. John drank some more whiskey and then licked a few drops from his upper lip. “I think,” he began cautiously, “that Mary and I are at the end of our particular road.” It was the first time that those words had been said aloud [at least by him], but as soon as they were out there in the universe, he knew that they were so very true.

Stamford only nodded, as if the announcement had been expected. “Well that happens.” There was a pause before he took a deep breath. “I thought we needed to talk about the book.”

John reached into his coat pocket and brought out the [sadly thin] sheaf of pages. “Working on it,” he said, waving the folded sheets as evidence.

Michael took the pages and ran his eyes over them quickly, before handing them back. “Good,” was all he said.

They ate their salmon and dauphine potatoes in a silence broken only by an occasional comment on the weather or current events. Stamford refrained until near the end of the meal from asking if there were a completion date in sight for the manuscript. John made a vague promise.

Finally as they finished their coffee and chocolate mousse, Stamford eyed him speculatively. “I know what it is,” he said, sounding self-satisfied.

“What ‘what’ is?” John replied, folding his heavy linen napkin carefully.

“You have the look of a man in love.”

So. Better, perhaps, at reading other people than expected. John looked around the room for a moment. “It’s nothing I am ready to talk about yet.”

Michael nodded. “Fine. Finish the book.”

 

Feeling very much at loose ends after leaving Stamford and knowing that he was not in the mood to return to the flat, John simply walked for a time. He toyed, briefly, with the idea of going to Sherlock’s studio, but as the last time he did that had been a complete disaster, he decided against returning there at the moment.

No matter how much he wanted to see Sherlock.

Stamford thought he looked like a man in love and John thought that the other man was possibly [probably] right about that.

Was he in love with Sherlock Holmes?

It shouldn’t have been possible. They had seen one another six times in their lives and only actually spoken on a total of four occasions. And yet he felt as if he knew Sherlock better than he had ever known anyone, even Mary after all their time together.

And Sherlock certainly knew him.

While it might have been ridiculous, Sherlock seemed to want him. Wanted to be with him. No one had ever looked at him the way Sherlock did. As if he were gazing upon something so bright that it hurt his eyes.

That realisation made something deep inside John ache.

Finally, John looked up and found that he was in front of the George Sand Bookshop. Almost without intending to do so, he went inside.

“John,” Irene said, seeming happy to see him. “How are you?”

‘I don’t know’ did not seem to be an appropriate reply to that question. And, after all, John thought, I am English. So, “I’m fine,” is what he said.

But his innate honesty---or perhaps the expression of skepticism on Irene’s face---forced him to add, “Just feeling a bit restless today.”

Sally, who was shelving books nearby, snickered, but didn’t say anything.

Irene led the way to the comfortable chairs and pushed him down into one. A moment later, she handed him a cup of tea and then sat next to him. “I shall be quite blunt,” she said.

“That does seem to be your way,” John replied, mildly amused.

“Have you and Sherlock come to terms yet?”

The tea was quite nice and John just savoured it for a few moments. “Come to terms? What does that even mean?”

Sally, of course, could not keep out of a conversation for very long. “Huh,” she said. “Maybe John has come to his senses, instead.”

Irene shot her a look and she turned back to the shelves. “What I mean, John, is have you two admitted that you’re mad for each other?”

John leaned forward and set the cup down carefully on a small table. “You are really a romantic, aren’t you, Irene?”

She just looked at him.

Finally John sighed. “I know how Sherlock feels.”

Sally made a vague sound. They both ignored her.

“Does he know how you feel?” Irene asked relentlessly.

John gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Not sure I know,” he said, although it seemed like a lie.

“Oh, dear. You’re dithering.”

“It’s…not easy.”

“Is anything worthwhile easy?” Irene just gazed at him for a moment. “I know Sherlock Holmes very well,” she said. “If he has…declared himself, he will never go back on that, John.”

“I know. I know.” John spoke in a whisper. Then he thought again about how Sherlock looked at him. It was absurd that he would even think about turning away from that gaze. Abruptly, he stood. “I need to go,” he said.

Irene opened her mouth, but then just closed it again without speaking. She nodded at him.

 

The door of the studio was locked.

John rang the bell, waited, and then rang again.

A pregnant lady appeared at the door of the house next to the studio. She said something in rapid French. John could not understand all of what she said, but the general message was clear. 

The madman was not at home. Was there a message?

“No,” John started, shaking his head and then he said, “Tell him John was here, please.” 

She nodded, he thanked her and walked away, disappointed.

But he kept walking, kept thinking and by the time he finally made it back to the flat, his mind was settled. More importantly, his heart was also settled. So many things were still unresolved, but he felt a happiness that bordered on the irrational.

He felt like a man in love.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Twenty-one: Where I Have To Go


	21. Where I Have To Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Champagne, Josephine Baker, and kisses in the Parisian night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little late today, because I was at a long pub lunch with the Sherlock Holmes Society. So the theme continues. It makes each day even better when I can post a chapter for you lovely people.

I feel my fate in what I  
cannot fear.  
I learn by going where  
I have to go.

-Theodore Roethke

 

Sherlock had retrieved his Leyland Eight from the nearby garage where the automobile was safely housed, available for those rare occasions when he actually wanted to use it. Mycroft had passed the vehicle onto him when he’d purchased the Rolls he now used when in Paris. Sherlock cared nothing for the prestige of the car as long as it got him where he wanted to go. Today he had wanted to get out of the city and do some en plein air painting.

He always found great contentment while standing at his easel amid a pastoral landscape, alone with his paints and his brushes and his thoughts. That was what he needed this day. He’d packed up his supplies, added a flask of tea and two croissants and left the flat.

It was a pleasant day to be out of the city and for some time he worked on a painting of the old farmhouse that sat in a field just below the rise where he had placed the easel. After a couple of hours, he relaxed in the lush grass to drink the tea and pick at a croissant. It could not escape him that while he was more relaxed now than he had been earlier, at the same time he had not reached that level of contentment he’d been hoping for.

The reason for that was no mystery.

He missed John Watson. Which was quite ridiculous, really, considering how little time they had actually spent in one another’s company.

Sherlock stretched his legs out in the grass and though about why that should be so. The conclusion that he reached was that John had actually been his since that day in the hospital tent and had they never even seen one another again, it would not have changed that fact. He had spent so long aching with the want, the loss, the need, without really know what it was that his life lacked, and now he knew. What he still did not know was whether he could carry on if John disappeared again.

He did not believe that he could.

After a few more minutes, he stood and returned to the easel.

This time he allowed himself to dwell on more pleasant thoughts. He thought about working in his studio as usual, but in the daydream, he was not alone. John sat nearby, reading or writing or pouring tea, but always watching Sherlock. Sometimes they would sit in silence, but often John would talk to him, in his quiet, soothing voice. Sherlock already knew that John’s voice had the power to smooth the rough edges of life that chafed him, to mend the jagged edges.

He freely conceded that he needed John, which was not a minor concession for a man who had never admitted to needing anyone or anything, save, perhaps, his art.

It was late in the afternoon by the time he packed up the car again and set out for the drive back into Paris.

He was unlocking his door, when Madame Basquit appeared at her first floor window and looked down at him. “You missed a caller,” she said. The baker’s wife served admirably as a sentry.

“Oh,” he said with little interest. Probably a prospective client. Or Moriarty, with whom he did not really want to deal at the moment. “Was there a message?”

“Just a name. Jean.”

Sherlock almost dropped his knapsack. “That’s all? Just the name?”

Madame Basquit shrugged as only a French baker’s wife could. Then her husband bellowed from somewhere inside and she vanished from the window with a scowl.

Damn, Sherlock thought, going inside and climbing the stairs. Why hadn’t he been here waiting for John? Which was ridiculous, of course, because he couldn’t just sit around doing nothing until the other man decided to appear.

But he rather wished he had done just that.

Because he always took great care with his tools, Sherlock spent some time putting everything back into its proper place. Finished with that chore, he went into the bedroom and changed from his working clothing into a black suit, crisp white shirt and an emerald green silk waistcoat. He paused in front of the mirror and contemplated himself for a moment, then tousled his hair just a bit.

If John had come here that rather gave him carte blanche to go to John’s didn’t it? That seemed quite reasonable and only fair.

Not wanting to talk himself out of it, he hurried down the stairs and walked quickly in the direction of John’s flat. He could feel a persistent thrumming begin in his chest. This moment seemed important.

Once he had arrived at the tidy building where John lived [with the woman he did not want to think about], Sherlock did not ring the bell. Instead, he stood in a doorway on the other side of the road, smoking and watching the second floor windows. He could see John moving about inside, pouring himself a drink, sitting at a table in front of a typewriter, but not typing. Instead, he just seemed to be staring into space.

Sherlock thought that it was probably not the done thing to spy on your---

Whatever John was.

Besides being absolutely essential, of course.

Sherlock ducked his head to light another Gauloise, inhaling the dark Turkish tobacco gratefully.

Just as he straightened to start watching again, a taxi pulled up. That woman jumped out and hurried inside almost before Sherlock could react to her arrival.

He watched as John stood and walked out of sight, presumably to greet her. Was he kissing her? Talking softly in that soothing voice.

Sherlock felt hollow. And also rather pathetic. Was this his destiny now? To simply lurk on the pavement and watch John Watson live his life with someone else? Would the other man ever be courageous enough to take a leap into a whole new life? Did he even want to do that? For a moment he despised both himself for being so helpless and John for putting him in this position.

But he didn’t leave.

*

 

John heard the sound of Mary’s rapid footsteps coming up the stairs and he took a deep breath. It was way past time for them to talk about…well, a number of things. He had no real idea what he might say about any of those things, but he was still determined that the situation had to be resolved.

He loved someone else.

That was really all she needed to know.

She opened the door and rushed in. “John---” she said.

He stood, almost unconsciously falling into a parade rest stance. “We need to talk,” he said firmly.

And Mary ignored him, already starting to unbutton her skirt as she headed for the bedroom. “I have to change.” She paused just long enough to cast a rather jaundiced gaze over his slightly wrinkled suit. “We have no time, so you’ll do just as you are.”

John frowned. “I’ll do? What the hell does that mean?” Then he shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. We really have to talk about…things.”

Now the look she gave him was slightly irritated and more than a little rueful. “Yes. I know we have to talk. For god’s sake do you think I haven’t noticed the bloody big elephant in the middle of the room? But not now. The Russian attaché that I have been trying desperately to interview is attending a private cabaret right now. This is important.”

John just looked at her.

She sighed. “I can’t get in on my own, but I know that you have an invitation right there on your desk.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the pile of papers on his desk. The invitations piled up and he mostly ignored them. But this could not be put off. “I need---”

Mary stepped closer and put a soft hand on his arm. “Do this for me, John?” she said quietly. “Please? Just get me in and then you can…do whatever you like.”

He wondered just when the breech between them had grown so large and why he had ignored it for so long. Why she had. Finally he nodded. “All right,” he said, but Mary was already in the bedroom changing quickly into her black dress.

Only a few minutes later, she was ready and they were downstairs on the pavement. Easier to walk, Mary pointed out, as the club where the cabaret was being held was only a few streets away. Not wanting to discuss it anymore and not really caring anyway, John just nodded and followed her.

They could hear the raucous jazz band and what sounded like the voice of Josephine Baker even before they turned the corner and reached the front of the club. John pulled out the invitation and they were waved into the heaving maelstrom. Noise and blue smoke filled the large space in equal measure and John remembered immediately why he always chose to avoid events such as this one.

Once they were inside, Mary true to her word, vanished into the crowd in search of her prey and John spared a moment to feel a little sympathy for the unsuspecting Russian.

The noise battered at him and John struggled not to limp a bit as he made a slow journey around the perimeter of the room. He finally climbed several steps to a mezzanine that was empty save for several couples huddled in the far corner. They ignored him and he returned the favour, taking a chair at the other end of the space, only half listening to Miss Baker’s singing.

He was so lost in thought that it was not until a flute of champagne was set down in front of him that he realised someone else had also climbed the stairs.

John looked up into the fathomless gaze of Sherlock Holmes. I love this man, he thought helplessly. He did not fight the smile that edged onto his lips. “Hello, you,” he said, wondering idly just how many waistcoats the man actually owned.

“John.” Sherlock sat down across from him. “Just in the interest of complete honesty,” he said, “this is not a coincidence. I was lurking outside your flat and followed you here.”

“And of course they let you in, because you are Sherlock Holmes.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said smugly.

John wondered what was wrong with him that these days smugness seemed attractive. “So the question is, why were you lurking outside my flat?”

“I was merely repaying the visit you made to my studio earlier. Sorry I missed you.”

John nodded. He sipped champagne and let his gaze wander over the room below, primarily because he was not sure that it would be a good idea to look into Sherlock’s eyes again at the moment. He could see Mary talking to someone who looked as if he might be Russian. She would be happy. The communist probably less so.

“Why did you come to the studio?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“To see you, of course. To talk.” John licked at the bubbles on his upper lip. “To tell you…” Now he dared raise his eyes and meet Sherlock’s gaze; tonight those eyes were dark viridian, with silver glinting from the center.

“To tell me what, John?” Sherlock said, leaning closer.

“That I want to---” John chose his words carefully. “I want to pursue this.”

“This?” There was definitely a hint of amusement in Sherlock’s voice now.

John did something he had wanted to do for what seemed like a very long time and reached out to lightly brush a curl from Sherlock’s face. “You. Us. I want to pursue us.”

At that, Sherlock did laugh, softly. Intimately. “Oh, John,” he said and John had never thought of his name as being an endearment before. “The pursuit is over. We have both succumbed. Victory is ours.”

“Yes. Undoubtedly.” John rested his hand on Sherlock’s where it lay on the table. He could see flecks of sky blue paint in the creases of his pale fingers. “But slowly, slowly,” he said. “This is too important to rush.”

“Rush? After all these years? I don’t see much rushing going on,” Sherlock complained.

John shrugged. “I am a ridiculous man,” he admitted.

“You are perfect,” Sherlock said. He looked away quickly, as if embarrassed by his own words.

The music grew even louder and the crowd followed suit.

“Can we get out of here?” John asked.

Without replying, Sherlock drained his glass and stood.

John followed him through the crowd, ignoring a joint smirk sent his way from Irene and Sally, who were pressed into a corner. Not far from them, he saw another familiar face. The stare he received from James Moriarty was icily furious and John looked away immediately.

He didn’t see Mary.

*

 

They walked quickly until the late-night crowd had vanished and they were alone in the dimly–lit and twisting little streets. As before, sometimes they talked and sometimes they just walked, frequently casting glances at one another and then smiling.

At one point, Sherlock pushed him gently into the empty doorway of a shuttered boucherie. “I want to kiss you,” he said.

John looked briefly surprised and then he grabbed Sherlock’s arms and pulled him closer. They leaned together, simply exchanging damp breaths for a moment, and John thought he could taste champagne and cigarettes and what might have been simply the essence of the other man in just the tiny puffs of air going from Sherlock’s mouth to his.

In the end, it was actually John who moved them into the first actual kiss, because Sherlock seemed lost in the moment and even contented just breathing at one another. Then John pressed forward and their lips met. For several seconds, there was nothing else, just a press of lips. Until a faint growling sound came from Sherlock and then it was all movement, wet and hot and urgent. John had no memory of other kisses he might have received in the past. Sherlock Holmes wiped the slate clean and John could not even remember a life before this time and place.

Even if there had been a life before this man, this night, these kisses, none of it mattered. Nothing mattered but the touch and taste of Sherlock’s mouth, tongue, teeth.

A few minutes---or a century---later, they pulled apart. Improbably, Sherlock rested his head on John’s shoulder, sighing as if he had been looking for that very place forever.

“Slowly, slowly?” he murmured, apparently able to summon up his usual sarcasm even in these circumstances.

“Oh, shut up,” John replied. He moved away and straightened his clothing, ignoring the bulge in his drawers. “I need coffee,” he said.

“Is that what you need?” Sherlock asked, smoothing the front of his waistcoat and passing a hand over his own crotch. “That’s not what I need.”

John took advantage of the darkness and the empty street, twisting his fingers into Sherlock’s as they walked on.

After a few minutes, they found a tiny café that was still serving coffee and pastries.

“I have an idea in mind,” Sherlock said as they drank the dark brew and shared a citron tart.

John smirked. “Sherlock, I imagine you have a half a dozen ideas in your mind at any given moment.”

“Oh, a dozen, at least,” Sherlock said with feigned indignation. “But this one is especially brilliant.”

“Of course it is.”

Sherlock swallowed another bite of tart before speaking again. “I think we should take a trip.”

“A trip?” John was not sure what he had been expecting Sherlock to say, but it certainly wasn’t that. “Where?”

“Wherever we like.” Sherlock’s enthusiasm was growing. “We can take my automobile and just go. Spain, maybe? Hemingway is forever nattering on about it.”

“Indeed he is.”

There was a pause, as Sherlock kept his gaze firmly on John, waiting for an answer.

“In for a penny,” John said finally.

“Cliches, John?” Sherlock chided. “I expect so much better from one of the foremost novelists of his generation.”

“Bastard,” John said.

Their eyes met, held.

“Let’s take a trip,” John said.

John thought that if he lived to be one hundred, he would never forget the beaming smile that Sherlock sent him. And, possibly for the first time in his life, John Hamish Watson actually wanted to live to be very old so that he could see that smile every single day for as long as possible.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Twenty-two: The Heart Has Its Reasons


	22. The Heart Has Its Reasons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Road trip! An end and a beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, nothing Sherlockian happened to me today. But a lovely wander at the National Portrait Gallery.

The heart has its reasons, which  
reason knows nothing of.

-Blaise Pascal

 

John was on his second cup of tea.

It was painfully clear that he was no longer of an age where staying up all night was in any way a good idea. Even if the reason for such activity was so resoundingly brilliant as spending those sleepless hours talking with and kissing Sherlock Holmes.

Still, John was inclined to think that he might never need to sleep again, if every night could be spent indulging in those two activities. It was a bit surprising that he had found the talking as fascinating as the kissing.

Nevertheless, there was no denying that he was rather exhausted, despite the fact that he had dozed a little on the chaise after arriving back at the flat not long before dawn.

Actually, not so much dozing, if he were being strictly accurate about the matter.

In reality, the time had been spent losing himself in hazy dreams of Sherlock. Not just of the kissing, either, although that did feature prominently. But there was more: a sepia-shaded memory of a silent meeting in a hospital tent, the unexpected vision of a familiar stranger in a yellow waistcoat, the blinding smile Sherlock had given him earlier that very night. John was startled to realise that in some respects that brief parade of images could be called the biography of his life.

Nothing else really mattered.

And if that were not a terrifying notion, he did not know what was.

But he didn’t let himself linger in the fear, because there had been far too much of that already. So he lay only half-asleep and lost himself in the memory of the first time he’d kissed and been kissed by Sherlock. John was a writer. He knew how to use words, manipulate them, make them do what he wanted them to do. But he could not come up with a phrase, a sentence, a paragraph to describe the effect on him of standing on a moonlit Parisian street with his mouth pressed against the warm, moist and quite perfect lips, tongue, and teeth of Sherlock. Tasting him, hearing his breath catch and then release in a sigh. Yes, John understood words, but it was clear that he might now have to change his definition of a few. Passion, for example. 

Given all of those thoughts, was it any wonder that when he finally roused himself to full consciousness, one hand was shoved down the front of his trousers?

He could only shake his head a bit ruefully, before stumbling into the kitchen and making a pot of tea.

By the time he started drinking that second cup, he was feeling much more awake and almost ready to face the day. Just as he decided, this Mary came out of the bedroom. Silently, he poured her some tea and pushed the cup in her direction.

She dropped into the chair opposite him. “Oh, so we’re going to have the talk now, are we?”

“Past time, don’t you think?”

She shrugged, possibly in agreement or perhaps just signifying a lack of interest in the topic at all, and took a swallow of the tea. Instantly, she made a face. “Christ, John, after all these years you still can’t make decent cuppa. It’s always too strong.”

He let that go by.

Mary, no matter how much she hated the tea, sipped it again, then lowered the cup before saying,, flatly, “I slept with someone else while I was in Moscow.”

John blinked. Twice. “All right,” was all he could say.

“All right? I tell you I’ve had sex with someone else and that is all you say?” She actually seemed mildly amused. “Well, it didn’t seem as if you were interested any more.”

“True. Let’s be honest though, Mary, neither of us has actually been interested for quite some time.”

She acknowledged that with a nod.

“I have not slept with anyone else,” John said, not sure why he wanted that to be a part of the discussion, but it seemed important. He did not mention the kissing.

“Really?” She seemed genuinely surprised at that.

John stared into his cup. “I have…come to care for someone.” He did wonder what he would say if she wanted a name.

But she had already moved on from a detail like that, it seemed. “Well, at least we never married. This is going to be complicated enough as it is.” Then she gave a soft laugh. “Which probably explains why we let the whole thing drag on so long.”

“Probably.” That was undoubtedly rather sad, but he didn’t have time to think about it at the moment. He glanced at his watch. “Sorry to cut this short, but I have a lot to do today. I’m taking a trip.”

It was actually amusing that those words seemed to startle her more than had anything else in the conversation. “A trip? Where are you going?”

“Spain, probably. I’ll be leaving later today.”

“Alone?”

He just shook his head.

Now she looked annoyed. “We have things to talk about. To arrange.”

He refused to feel guilty. “I know. When I get back. Meanwhile, I’ll make sure the rent is covered and that you have money.” Her salary did not compare with his income from royalties.

“Fine.”

Neither of them seemed to have anything else to say at the moment. They sat in silence for a long moment, until John finally stood and went into the bedroom to start packing.

*

 

Sherlock was always a careful and precise packer.

He started with his art supplies, of course: paints, brushes, pencils, sketchbooks, canvases. Everything in its place and he finally closed the case with a satisfied sigh.

Just as he turned to go into the bedroom, there came the unmistakable sound of a certain set of footsteps coming up the stairs. Sherlock sometimes thought that Mycroft must have somehow hidden tiny cameras or something around his studio. How else would he know to always appear at exactly the wrong moment?

Deciding upon his usual strategy of dealing with his brother, Sherlock continued into the bedroom and pulled his Asprey leather trunk from the top of the wardrobe. He hoisted it onto the bed and opened it as the footsteps drew closer.

“Planning a trip?” Mycroft said from the doorway.

“Obviously. Don’t pretend you didn’t know that already,” Sherlock snapped.

“You always credit me with an omniscience that I can only dream of possessing,” Mycroft demurred. “I had no idea that you were planning to travel until this very moment.”

Surprisingly, Sherlock realised that he believed his brother. “Then why are you here?” he demanded.

Mycroft shrugged. “I am merely en route to Berlin to meet with---well, you don’t need to know about that, do you?” He smiled. “But I just wanted to see how your life is going. Frankly, I still have some concern over your affiliation with Moriarty.”

“For heaven’s sake, first we’re associating and now affiliating? Make up your mind, Mycroft.” Sherlock was selecting and removing clothing from the wardrobe. He chose several waistcoats, two suits, some casual flannels, a selection of shirts. “The portrait of Moriarty is nearly finished, will be finished as soon as I return to Paris, and with that any associating or affiliating with the man will end.” As he talked, Sherlock was carefully folding his clothes and putting everything into the trunk with precision.

He was not lying; frankly, he was weary of delving around in the cesspool of James Moriarty’s nature. There was nothing else to learn.

Mycroft watched him silently for a moment. “In an ideal world, that would indeed be the case. Unfortunately, reliable information from certain circles leads one to believe that Mr. Moriarty is taking an unhealthy interest in your life.”

Sherlock gave a snort. He went to the serpentine burl walnut chest to remove undergarments, socks, pyjamas. “Rest assured,” he said then, “that beyond my usual curiosity, I have never had any interest at all in James Moriarty. Frankly, he rather repulses me.” Every time Sherlock thought back to the image of John crouched under the table, stricken with fear, he wanted to put his fingers around Moriarty’s neck and squeeze. He cast a glance at Mycroft. “You are at least right on one point. He is a very evil man. Frankly, I believe that he might be insane. Although quite brilliant,” he added musingly. Which was, of course, the attraction. When one crossed swords with a genuine villain, one wanted the blades to be equally honed.

Mycroft did not seem inclined to argue either the evil or the intelligence. “Nothing can be gained by playing word games with a madman, Sherlock.”

There was a silence, while Sherlock considered what else needed to go into the trunk.

“Where are you going?” Mycroft asked finally.

“Spain is the plan.” He made a graceful turn, as if waving a cape. “The bullfights, possibly.”

“Alone?” 

The word was said so carelessly that Sherlock understood immediately how important the question was. He turned and stared at his brother in disbelief. “Good god! You think that I am going on holiday with Moriarty?” He could not help the bark of laughter that escaped. “Forgive me, Mycroft. You are quite correct. I have obviously over-estimated the reach of your intelligence gathering. If not your very intelligence. My god.” He shook his head. “You really do have a low opinion of me, don’t you?”

Mycroft did not meet his gaze, which meant that he had managed to embarrass his brother. “Then with whom?”

“Is it your business?”

“Call it brotherly concern. You know how Mummy and I worry.”

Sherlock stepped into the tiny bathroom for a moment, returning to the bedroom with his shaving kit, which he dropped into the trunk. Then he closed the top. He did not know how John felt on the subject, but if he did not respond, his brother would not let the matter drop. If nothing else, Mycroft was a safe [read: discreet] ear in which to confide. And he admitted that he wanted someone outside his immediate circle {namely Irene and Lestrade} to know. It was something to be proud of, he thought, that John Watson was willing to be at his side. “I am going to Spain with John Watson,” he said and both of them heard the note of pride in his voice.

“Watson? The novelist?” Mycroft’s brows lifted. “Oh, yes, of course. He is the soldier in the painting.” He studied Sherlock carefully. “I see,” he murmured again. Then his usual brusqueness was back. “Very good. Have a pleasant journey. I will inform Mummy that you have made a friend. She will be delighted.”

Sherlock only sneered at him.

Mycroft paused at the doorway. “While not wanting to cast any sort of cloud over your holiday, I will just issue one more word of caution---”

Sherlock interrupted him. “Yes, yes, Moriarty, I know. Goodbye, Mycroft, no doubt Herr Streseman is waiting.”

Surprising Mycroft was a rare treat. He acknowledged Sherlock’s coup with a nod and left.

Sherlock stood where he was for a moment. Then a faint smile touched his lips as he thought about what was going to happen in his life from now on.

But first there were things to do.

*

 

John began by going to the bank, where he withdrew funds for the upcoming trip as well as a sufficient amount to leave for Mary, as he’d promised. After that, he stopped at the estate agent who handled the flat and paid two months worth of rent in advance. These were solid, tangible steps that were leading him towards a whole new life.

He wondered if perhaps he ought to be a bit more nervous about it all than he apparently was.

On a whim [so now stolid John Watson was the sort of man who had whims?] he went into La Sanaritaine to purchase some new shirts in various fashionable colours and a few other items that caught his eye. Not that his wardrobe would ever rise to the standard of one Sherlock Holmes, but he would do what he could.

Finally, deciding that a Baedecker would be a good thing to have in hand [although no doubt Sherlock had the map of Europe firmly embedded in his memory], John headed for the George Sand Bookshop.

Sally was in the front of the shop, apparently just finishing a new window display. “Hello, John,” she said, sounding pleasant for a change.

“Sally,” he replied politely. It never took long before her tart nature would assert itself, but luckily Irene appeared before their courteous exchange could descend into the usual snipping.

Irene gave him a quick hug. “How are you?”

John could feel a smile tickling the corners of his mouth. “I am…fine. Everything is fine.”

She eyed him. Miss Adler, he had already realised, was a very intelligent woman; she did not quite reach the standard of genius like Sherlock, but she was far above the norm. “Oh, everything is fine?”

“Yes.”

“Good god,” Sally said. “You have gone and succumbed to the bastard, haven’t you?”

John glanced at her. “Better to say I just stopped running away,” he said crisply.

“Good for you,” Irene said. She crossed her arms and kept watching him. “It won’t ever be easy, you know,” she said.

“I do know that.” Then, helpless, he grinned at her. “But I’ll never be bored.”

She laughed. “True.”

Sally gave what was almost a chuckle. “I never knew that madness was infectious.”

“Apparently I never developed an immunity,” John said. “I need a Baedecker.”

“Is it a honeymoon then?” Sally’s usual nature reasserted itself.

“It is a trip, that’s all. To Spain.” He had hoped to buy the book and make a quick escape, but Irene, of course, was having none of that. Before he knew what was happening, John found himself sitting in one of the comfortable armchairs, with the usual cup of tea in hand. 

“Tell all,” she ordered.

Well, he didn’t tell all, but he did relate a part of what had happened between Sherlock and himself. Instead of feeling uncomfortable about it, John realised that he was proud to admit that he loved Sherlock. Irene would not spread the word; he knew that, if only because of her fondness for Sherlock.

John also knew that there was a smile on his face the entire time.

*

Sherlock had just opened the door to the garage when he heard footsteps approaching from behind. Without looking, he knew exactly who it was. “I sent a note to you at the Ritz,” he said, still without turning around. “As it stated quite plainly, work on the portrait will resume when I return to Paris.”

Moriarty kept moving, stepping by Sherlock, and going into the garage. “Ooh, lovely vehicle. Suits you.” Then he smiled. “What if this delay does not suit me?”

Sherlock shrugged. He didn’t really have time for this nonsense; he had to drive back to the studio to collect his luggage and then go to John’s flat where the other man would be waiting. It would have made more sense, of course, to wait until the next morning for their departure, but neither of them had wanted to postpone things even for one more night. “You are welcome to accept an unfinished painting in that case,” he said crisply. “There will be no refund on the price paid, of course.”

Moriarty just gave a sharp laugh. “Holmes, do you know how few people have ever amused me the way you do?”

The question seemed rhetorical and since Sherlock didn’t care anyway, he just ignored Moriarty’s words.

“No, no, of course, I am perfectly willing to wait for your return. Off somewhere pleasant, are you?”

Sherlock was making a few cursory checks on his motorcar, giving Moriarty only a part of his attention. “One likes to think so. Otherwise a holiday seems rather pointless, doesn’t it?”

“Your little pet is going along, of course. God, I predict utter boredom before you are even beyond the environs of Paris.”

Sherlock jiggled his keys. “I am on a schedule with does not include wasting time on this conversation.”

Moriarty sneered. “Mustn’t keep the poodle waiting, right? He might have an attack of nerves.”

Sherlock thought fleetingly of smashing his fist into the sneering face. Instead, ignoring the customary method of entering the Leyland, he simply used his long legs and stepped in, settling behind the steering wheel. “Good-bye, Moriarty,” he said.

The other man leaned in much too closely. “Enjoy your little holiday,” he said tightly. “One never knows what the future will bring, am I correct?”

Sherlock looked into the dark eyes and was somewhat startled by the vast emptiness he saw there. It made him recall what Mycroft had said about Moriarty. “I know my future,” he said shortly.

Moriarty just smiled. “Au revoir, mon frère. Give Mr. Watson my regards.”

Sherlock did not intend to ever mention Moriarty to John.

He waited until Moriarty had tipped his hat mockingly and walked away before starting the motorcar.

John was waiting.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Twenty-three: A Seal Upon Thine Heart


	23. A Seal Upon Thine Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John hit the road. And have a lovely meal, followed by a lavender scented bath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, a little late today. Went to see wax Benedict and then to the Sherlock Holmes Store on Baker Street. Then came back ready to post and had no server. But here we are, finally! Enjoy, please.

Set me as a seal upon thine heart,  
as a seal upon thine arm; for love  
is as strong as death.

-Song of Solomon

 

He knew instinctively, without even a glance upwards, that Mary was watching from the window. Well, it was natural, he supposed, to be curious. Truthfully, he didn’t care if she saw the person he was leaving with.

A small pile of luggage was set on the pavement next to him. He walked a slow circle around the suitcase, valise, typewriter case, rather wishing he still used cigarettes as it would have given him something to do. There was a lot to think about, of course, but he was not inclined to do so at this particular moment. Now did not seem like a time for much thought.

So deeply was he thinking about not thinking that at first he did not even notice the vehicle that was gliding to a stop in front of where he stood. It seemed as if he were destined to be constantly surprised by Sherlock’s arrival in his life.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice sounded mildly amused.

He looked up quickly and saw Sherlock sitting behind the steering wheel of the most beautiful automobile John had ever seen. For a moment, all he could do was stare. Finally, he moved over to stand on the kerb. “Christ, Sherlock, this is yours?”

“What? Yes, of course, it is. Why would I be driving someone else’s vehicle?” Then Sherlock frowned. “Don’t you like it?”

“Not like it?” John laughed. “Sherlock, even if you weren’t coming along I’d be happy to go on holiday with this motor car.” Then, apparently still not thinking, he leant down and pressed a kiss to the frown. Realising what he was doing, he straightened quickly. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

Sherlock smiled, but his voice was flat. “Never, ever apologise for kissing me,” he said.

John nodded. As he moved away to collect his luggage, his gaze finally flicked up towards the window. Mary was standing there and for just a moment their eyes met. Then she stepped away and the curtain fell into place.

There was just enough room in the boot and rear seat for his belongings to be squeezed in with Sherlock’s things. Once it was all in place, he straightened and looked at Sherlock again. “I am not much of a traveller,” he said, “but I understand that for such an automobile journey it is usual to carry extra fuel and a tyre, just in case. I don’t see room for any of that.”

Sherlock reached over with one long arm and opened the other door so that John could slide into the passenger seat. “We needn’t bother,” he said. “I have an extremely annoying and highly efficient brother who will make sure that whatever we need will appear as promptly as possible.”

John had settled into the seat with a sigh at the feel of the soft leather. He raised a brow. “So what is he? A magician?”

Sherlock scowled. “He is the British government and the most dangerous man you could ever meet. We shall ignore him.”

“But accept his largesse anyway?” John said teasingly.

“Of course.”

There was a moment of silence as they just looked at one another.

“We’re really doing this,” John said softly.

“We are,” Sherlock agreed cheerfully as he fiddled with the starter. “And no second thoughts allowed. If you try to get away, I will tackle you to the pavement and drag you along anyway.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Good.”

A few moments later, they pulled away from the kerb and headed out of Paris.

 

It was difficult to converse in the rapidly moving car, so they were mostly silent as they left the city behind, which John decided was not a bad thing at the moment. He needed some time to catch his breath, it seemed.

For the most part, he simply watched as Sherlock maneuvered the powerful machine down the road. He drove with a sort of careless nonchalance that was much more enthralling than it should have been.

John wondered if he might be doomed to spend the rest of his life entirely enthralled by this man.

In his next breath, he decided that enthrallment would not be a bad way to spend however many years he had left.

His mind wandered off on various tangents, side roads of thought about what else those hands might be able to do. After a few minutes of that, he coughed and cleared his mind. A bit too late, it seemed, judging from the sidewise glances being sent his way. No doubt Sherlock knew exactly what he’d been thinking about.

John reached out and touched Sherlock’s hand where it rested on the steering wheel, just briefly, but it was enough to establish a connection. Then he settled back to watch the French countryside roll by.

It was several hours later and fully dark by the time Sherlock turned off the main road and slowed the Leyland as they headed down a narrow, unpaved lane. “We are booked at an inn just up here a bit,” he said, now that they were moving more slowly. “The proprietor is an acquaintance of long standing.” He did not explain further.

John just nodded.

Sherlock seemed to hesitate before his next words. “I arranged for one room,” he said. “I hope that is…acceptable.”

“It’s good.” This time when John reached out he ran his fingers through the wind-ravaged curls. “It’s fine, Sherlock, all of it.”

Sherlock smiled at him.

 

Once they had managed to extricate themselves from the elderly woman who now ran the massive family chateau as an inn, and who obviously doted on Sherlock, the room turned out to be much more than fine.

Larger than John had expected, it was cheerfully yet tastefully decorated, with the main feature being a magnificent carved oak bed, which was draped in fine linen and silk. There was even a private lavatory, which contained a large, gleaming copper bath.

Again, Sherlock seemed almost uncertain, watching John as if awaiting his judgment.

“It’s lovely, Sherlock,” he said, meaning it. Then there seemed nothing for it, but to step forward into Sherlock’s arms, which opened immediately to receive him.

“Oh, god, “Sherlock whispered. “I have wanted this for so long. Wanted you. Since that day in the hospital tent.”

“You have me now,” John replied. His nose nuzzled into Sherlock’s neck and he inhaled the scent of expensive soap and perspiration and what he could only identify as the smell of Sherlock himself. He wondered how he had existed so long on the planet without this in his life.

They just stood there for several moments, as what was a new reality settled over them, their breaths coming in tandem, and John thought that perhaps their heartbeats synchronised as well. Finally Sherlock, with obvious reluctance, pulled back. “Madame Rousseau is expecting us downstairs for dinner,” he said.

John realised suddenly that he was actually hungry. His innate sense of courtesy also meant that he did not want to offend a woman who was so obviously fond of Sherlock. With a rueful half-smile, he willed his body to calm itself.

Sherlock snickered and it seemed as if he were waging a similar battle with his own flesh. Then he bent forward and nipped at John’s earlobe. “At least I can assure you that the food will be sublime,” he said.

“It had better be,” John muttered.

They took turns washing their faces and hands, but decided against changing in the interest of time. More time would have been saved had they not paused to exchange frequent kisses, of course, but neither of them seemed to think that was an option.

Finally, however, they did reach the elegant yet comfortable dining room, where two other couples were already eating. They were shown to a corner table and immediately a waiter appeared to light the candle that sat in the middle of the table.

Once they had ordered their meal and there were two glasses of wine sitting in front of them, John settled back in his chair and looked across the table at Sherlock. “Well,” he said. “Here we are.”

Sherlock took a sip of the wine and nodded in approval. “Obviously,” he said then.

John stared at him, the impossible man with whom he was so desperately in love. At the unruly curls falling into his face. At those eyes, which seemed to change colour on a whim. The mouth, that whether pouting or smiling, seemed to promise things that John had never really known he wanted. Even in his travel-mussed suit and wrinkled periwinkle waistcoat, Sherlock Holmes was a sight to behold.

And he’s mine, John thought rather more giddily than a man of his age should have done.

Sherlock leaned across the table. “Je t’aime,” he whispered. “Je t’aime, Jean.”

John stared helplessly into the lush verdant gaze. It felt as if the tenuous grip which his fingertips had been maintaining on the side of a perilous cliff for so long had, at last, given way and he was falling.

He let himself go.

 

The meal, as promised, was perfect. A simple chicken dish, served with green salad and warm crusty bread, was followed by fresh fruit and then petit fours with their coffee. Even Sherlock ate more than he usually seemed to do.

Without having been asked, Madame Rousseau finally brought over two snifters of brandy. Sherlock spoke to her in quiet and rapid French that John had absolutely no chance of understanding. She nodded and smiled, then bustled from the dining room. 

Sherlock caught John’s curious expression. “My family used to holiday here when I was a boy,” he explained. “We are friends of the family. And I also stayed here occasionally during the war when I needed to…disappear.”

“Someday you must tell me more about your war,” John commented. “Clearly you did not spend all of your time painting.”

“Dull.” They finished the brandy slowly and watched the other couples leave the room. Finally Sherlock stood. “Shall we?” he asked.

John nodded.

As they climbed the staircase up to their room, they passed a young maid coming down. In each hand, she carried a large, obviously empty kettle. She smiled at them.

Once they were in the room, with the door closed and locked, Sherlock took John’s hand and led him to the massive copper bath, which was now filled with steaming hot water. It smelled faintly of lavender. “Will you share this with me?” Sherlock whispered.

John stared at the waiting bath and then at the other man. “Sherlock Holmes, I had no idea that you were such a romantic,” he teased lightly.

Sherlock’s voice, on the other hand, was low and solemn. “Neither did I,” he said. “But you have not answered my question.”

John pulled him closer. “I will share this. I will share everything with you, for the rest of my life, if you will have me.”

“I will, John. In fact, I must.”

By common, albeit silent, agreement, they moved apart and walked back into the bedroom. Sherlock toed off his black shoes and removed his jacket, followed by the waistcoat.

“You never wear a tie,” John said.

“How perspicuous of you to notice,” Sherlock said drily. He pulled his shirt out from his trousers and slowly unbuttoned it.

John blinked. “Or a vest, apparently.”

“You’re on fire tonight, John. What other observations can you make?”

“I can observe that you’re a snarky prick,” John snapped.

“Most people make that deduction a lot earlier in their acquaintance with me.” Sherlock eyed him. “I thought we were going to bathe.”

John pulled off his jacket and glen plaid tie. “My point was---” 

“I was sure you had one.”

John removed his shoes and ignored him, while having a vague premonition that ignoring things Sherlock said was a skill he would have to cultivate or being offended would become a frequent state of being. “My point was that you really don’t obey any of the rules, do you?”

“Rules are boring. And who makes those rules, anyway?”

“Possibly your powerful brother?” John had by now lowered his braces and unbuttoned his shirt. Sliding the shirt of, he glanced down ruefully at the sleeveless top of his white gauze union suit.

“I will take you shopping,” Sherlock offered.

John grimaced. “Mary already did that.”

Sherlock grinned. “But I have good taste.” Then he dropped his trousers and stood there in a pair of those daringly new boxer shorts. They were not the more common linen, but silk and in the same periwinkle blue as his now discarded waistcoat. And, as John saw when the trousers were carelessly kicked aside, Sherlock’s stockings were the same colour, held in place by black leather garters. Before John could comment [or think of what comment he might possibly make] the stockings and garters were gone as well. Sherlock glared at him.

“All right, all right,” John muttered. There was no sense in being self-conscious. He took off his trousers and perfectly acceptable argyle stockings and elastic garters, then stood there in just his short-leg union suit.

Sherlock smiled, but not in a mocking way; it was much warmer than that. He took three long steps and stood very close to John. “Surprisingly, I find something quite…appealing in the sight of you wearing that absurd garment.”

John could feel the warmth of Sherlock’s skin even though they were not actually touching. “I thought we were going to bathe,” he said hoarsely.

“So we are.” Sherlock whipped around and disappeared into the bathroom.

John followed more slowly. By the time he got there, Sherlock was naked and busily adding a little more hot water from yet another kettle to the bath. John removed his union suit. Sherlock climbed into the copper tub first, leaning against the back, opening his arms and legs. “John,” was all he said.

John moved carefully to climb in, surprised at how hot the water was. He maneuvered himself until he was resting between Sherlock’s legs. Two wiry arms enfolded him.

Sherlock sighed.

“All right?” John murmured.

“For the first time in my life,” Sherlock replied.

“Really?”

“Does that honestly surprise you, John? Whatever do you think might have made me content before this moment?”

John let the fingers of one hand trail along Sherlock’s thigh. “Your art?”

“The art is necessary. It sustains me. Very occasionally excites me. But it does not make me content.”

The two arms holding John tightened. 

“I’m glad I can do that for you,” John said.

Sherlock’s lips nuzzled at his ear. “What do I do for you?” he whispered.

John did not rush to answer; he wanted to be sure that Sherlock understood exactly what this meant to him. “You complete me,” he said finally. “I have been waiting for you all my life, without knowing what it was I waited for.” He knew that sounded impossibly soppy, but there it was.

A kiss was pressed to first one shoulder and then the other. “I am not an easy person,” Sherlock said. “Inevitably, I will hurt you, although that will never be my intention.”

“Inevitably I will then forgive you.” John shifted so that he could look into Sherlock’s face, which was damp and slightly pink, although whether that was from the heat of the bath or something else was uncertain. “I don’t ever want to hurt you,” he said.

Unexpectedly, Sherlock licked some drops of moisture from John’s cheek. “The only way you could hurt me would be to leave. I think, perhaps, that might kill me.”

“It will never happen,” John promised.

They looked at one another for a long moment and then their mouths met in a damp, slightly clumsy and slightly awkward kiss. John decided it was the best kiss he had ever had. Of course, he’d had that same thought after their first kiss as well. After a moment, he turned and settled against Sherlock’s chest again. Sherlock continued to dot small kisses along his shoulders and neck.

The water was cooling and finally they left the bath, dried one another with the wonderfully soft towels and then crawled into the bed, naked and warm. John was aroused, in an oddly languid way, his cock slowly hardening as Sherlock wrapped himself around John, holding him tenderly. 

“What do you want?” Sherlock rumbled against John’s skin.

“I want you,” John said simply. “I love you.”

“And I you. Although I might not say it often, you must never doubt it.”

Their gazes met and held, much as they had on that day a decade ago, in the same country where they were together now, but in a much different world.

And then, suddenly, the quiet, almost lazy mood was gone.

Frantically, John reached for Sherlock and Sherlock responded instantly. Hot damp flesh melded with hot damp flesh and the heat exploded. John rubbed and touched and licked and bit every part of Sherlock he could reach. Sherlock made noises that barely qualified as human. He grunted and moaned and gasped out phrases in French and German and something that John thought sounded Spanish.

Finally, John slid down in the bed and grasped Sherlock’s cock in one hand. He gave one slow lick that went from the root to the tip. He lifted his head to look at Sherlock and was stunned to see tears rolling down the other man’s face. Instead of speaking, he took Sherlock into his mouth and began a slow sucking that had his lover grabbing the edge of the blanket desperately.

John ignored his own raging erection for the moment and concentrated on pleasing Sherlock, which suddenly seemed to be the most important thing he had ever done or would ever do.

“Johnjohnjohnjohnjohn….” The chant filled the room, filled John’s ears, filled his heart. And then the room was silent, save for the sloppy wet sound of John’s sucking. Sherlock’s mouth formed a perfect O, but nothing emerged as he suddenly grabbed John’s hair as if in warning. John ignored that, giving one final suck, and then his mouth was filled with Sherlock’s orgasm. He swallowed desperately, wanting every last drop.

When Sherlock had finally collapsed back against the bed, gasping for breath, John began a furious rutting against him, unable to wait long enough for Sherlock to recover and take some action of his own. After a moment, Sherlock did begin to speak again, whispering hoarsely, “Yes, John, yes, let me see you, let me see you.”

John gave a long moan and his climax came more forcefully than any he’d ever had, his cum landing on Sherlock’s belly and thighs. At last he collapsed on top of Sherlock and just lay there, panting. Sherlock stroked his hair gently and no one spoke for several minutes.

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmured finally, still petting John’s hair.

“I love you,” John replied.

“That’s what I was thanking you for,” Sherlock pointed out.

John knew they should move, clean up, get ready to sleep. But they did none of those things. They just lay there, sticky and sweaty, and completely content. And that was how John fell asleep.

 

Sherlock did not sleep.

Instead, he simply lay in the bed and watched as pale golden moonlight crept across the room, washing John in its warmth. A part of Sherlock wanted to crawl out of the bed, unpack his pencils and commit the image in front of him to paper. 

But, more than that, he wanted to stay just where he was, beside John. So he committed the sight to his memory, tucking it into the bright gallery that had been constructed specifically for all things John.

He propped himself on one elbow and gazed down at a reality he had never completely believed would ever come to pass. He was sharing a bed with a sated, sleeping John Watson. Very lightly, he trailed the fingers of his free hand across John’s bare chest, not touching the scar, but feeling the sticky residue of their mingled release.

John murmured and shifted slightly closer, but did not open his eyes..

After another moment, Sherlock relaxed against the mattress again. Closing his eyes, he listened to the sound of John’s breathing, warm puffs of air that reached Sherlock’s skin as he inhaled the scents of John and sex and lavender that hovered over the bed.

Sherlock smiled and settled in to wait for John to awaken.

 

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Twenty-four: The Journey Inwards


	24. The Journey Inwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The holiday continues. Old churches, scenery, a sniper. Just the usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nice longish chapter today. And, sorry, but I cannot seem to stop dressing Sherlock.

The longest journey is the journey  
inwards of him who has chosen his destiny.

-Dag Hammerskjold

 

They arrived in the old port city of Nantes in the middle of a sunny afternoon, several hours later than planned, following the complication of a blown tyre. But true to what Sherlock had said, after a not-unpleasant walk of just over a kilometer to a rundown former stable now serving as a garage, a replacement tyre was waiting.

This brother was apparently useful.

Although more than a bit unsettling.

Sherlock just sneered and said something about an over-fondness for crème-filled pastry. They drank some abysmal coffee and watched as a rather sullen man with a nose that had obviously been broken more than once, changed the tyre and also supplied more fuel, then they took to the road again.

John wondered if he should be a bit embarrassed about how much he enjoyed just watching Sherlock drive, but finally decided that it didn’t matter.

“May I ask you something?” Sherlock said suddenly.

“I have had your prick in my mouth,” John said wryly. “Three times. Ask away.”

“Do you make tea?”

John blinked at him, although Sherlock was still watching the road ahead. “Do I make tea?”

“Good to know that there is nothing wrong with your hearing.”

“Very nice. Yes, Sherlock, I have indeed been known to make tea. Although my technique has been criticized.”

“I am sure your technique is fine,” Sherlock assured him. Then he turned his head briefly and beamed a smile in John’s direction.

John just smiled back.

 

Once they had checked into the old inn near the port, they walked to the Place Royale and joined other tourists enjoying the day. John decided that it was much more pleasant visiting foreign places as a tourist than as a soldier.

He gave a sigh of utter satisfaction. From the bench where he was sitting, John could watch all the activity in the elegant square, which Sherlock had earlier told him dated from 1790. “Do you work as a tour guide in your spare time?” he teased lightly.

Sherlock frowned. “I researched, of course. But now that I have used the data, I will erase it.”

“Erase it?”

“I do not want to clutter my mind with extraneous information,” Sherlock had replied crisply. “The rooms get too crowded.” He did not explain that remark. “Sit on that bench,” he then ordered. “I will fetch us some gelato.” He eyed John. “Strawberry, if I am not mistaken.”

John smirked. “Are you ever?”

“Rarely.” Sherlock replied, not with any braggadocio, but only as a matter of fact.

Now, looking past the others strolling about, he could see Sherlock returning, a cup of gelato in each hand. John had a momentary flash of something like disbelief. That extraordinary creature, tall and impossibly slender in his ecru linen suit, pale yellow shirt, and, as always, a well-fitted waistcoat [this one deep blue, with golden starbursts], with his mess of curls and absolutely unique face, was his. In every sense of the word.

John had to admit that he was still a bit unsettled by how quickly and how completely his life had changed. Not that he regretted anything at all, but it still took a little getting accustomed to.

Then Sherlock was there, in front of him, smiling and handing him the gelato. John took the cup and Sherlock folded himself elegantly onto the bench next to him.

“Would you be offended,” John began after several bites of the frozen treat, “if I said that you are the most attractive man I have ever seen?” That was such an understatement as to be almost laughable, but it was as far as John was willing to go in the middle of the afternoon, surrounded by chattering tourists.

Sherlock licked thoughtfully at a spoonful of his chocolate gelato and that, John decided, was a sight not to be missed. “Why would I be offended by that?” he asked. “Especially as I feel the same about you.”

“Do you?” Then John shook his head. “We are both quite absurd.”

“That might offend me,” Sherlock pointed out, but he said it lightly, with a smile in his eyes.

When they had finished the gelato and returned the cups to the shop, they walked some more, this time going to see the neo-gothic church of St. Nicholas. Standing in the shadow of the tall tower, Sherlock suddenly said, “Are you a believer, John?”

“A believer? Oh, you mean---” He waved a hand at the massive façade. “Some men found God in the trenches,” he said. “Others lost their belief.”

Sherlock tilted his head, fixing John with a curious gaze. “What about you?”

He shrugged. “I decided it was all irrelevant. And you?”

“Do I strike you as godly in any way?” Sherlock responded. “If I were, wouldn’t I be living in a constant fear of being struck down by divine judgment?” He walked in a circle and then bent his head back to see the top of the tower. His voice, when he spoke again, was low and nearly raspy with emotion. “Were it necessary, John, I would burn in hell for an eternity to enjoy the pleasures of your body. And count myself lucky.”

John swallowed, then moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. Before he could speak or doing something indiscreet like throwing his arms around Sherlock, a group of schoolchildren approached the church, chattering and laughing. When the horde had gone around the corner, John stepped closer. “Shall we return to the inn now?”

Sherlock only nodded.

They took a shortcut through a narrow, twisting alley, their arms brushing together with every step. As they walked, John could not shake the feeling that they were being watched. Then he realised that if anyone was actually watching, it probably had to do with the other Holmes. The bloody brother.

Useful, yes, but also extremely annoying.

*

 

“For a pair of godless heathens,” Sherlock mused, “we seem to spend a considerable amount of time hanging about religious sites.”

John, who was efficiently setting crusty bread, cheese, slices of salty ham, and a bottle of local white wine on the blanket Sherlock had spread on the grass, shrugged. “This just seemed like a good place for a picnic,” he said. “And, personally, I always fancied myself as more of a pagan than a heathen.”

Sherlock chuckled; it was rather surprising how often John amused him. He thought that he had laughed more in the past few days than he had since…well, ever, actually. As had so quickly become a habit, he reached out to run a hand through John’s hair. It was calming.

And John was quite correct: this small grassy cove was an ideal spot for dining alfresco. Sherlock decided to be helpful and so he opened the wine, pouring two glasses. “Well, the holy Mary of Whatever doesn’t seem to mind if we have wine and cheese in her garden.

John glanced at the weathered marble statue that stood in the portico of the tiny abandoned chapel. Neither of them had bothered to read the plaque revealing just what miraculous event had sanctified this location. “She has a kind face,” he murmured. “I don’t think she would chastise us.”

“You’re very fanciful,” Sherlock pointed out.

“I’m a storyteller; it’s part of the job description.” He lifted his wine and clinked the crystal against Sherlock’s drink. “To us. And to kindly icons who do not chastise us.”

They drank.

The meal passed mostly in silence; that was one of the [countless] things that Sherlock appreciated about John. He did not feel the need to natter on endlessly.

When the bread, cheese and ham were gone [and Sherlock continued to be startled at how much he ate, almost willingly, when John was watching], he picked up an apple and took a bite, chewing slowly. Then he held it out so that John could do the same. They alternated bites until the apple was gone. Sherlock stretched out on the blanket. “I should sleep off the wine a bit before driving on,” he murmured. “Wouldn’t want to hit a tree or a cow or something.”

John merely grunted in agreement and lay down as well, his head resting against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock reached out and took his hand, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss. Then he gave into the lassitude creeping over him and slept.

 

The sun was lower in the sky when he awoke and saw John watching him, a soft expression on his face. It was not a look that Sherlock could remember ever before seeing on anyone’s face when they looked at him. “Hello,” Sherlock said.

“Do you think that Holy Mary of Whatever would mind if I made love to you right here?” John asked softly.

Sherlock’s lips twitched. “I think the kindly lady would avert her eyes and recite the rosary,” he said. “Although I would not try to anticipate the reaction should any other pilgrims approach.”

“I will be very quick.” John promised, already opening the flies on Sherlock’s trousers. One hand cupped Sherlock’s prick through the silk boxer shorts he wore. “Bless these shocking pants,” he said, bending close, his breath, warm and moist against Sherlock’s balls. Using one hand, John freed an eager cock, which was practically stiff already just from the anticipation of what was going to happen. 

Sherlock propped himself on his elbows so that he could watch.

John gave him a delightfully cheeky grin and then with no further ado took Sherlock into his mouth. He sucked and licked, still with an engaging naivety that Sherlock found entirely charming. His erection slid in and out of John’s hot, wet mouth and finally Sherlock lost the ability to stay on his elbows, dropping back to the ground. “Oh, John,” he whispered. “Oh!”

And then release swept over him, the exquisite agony taking him over completely, even his rational core. Sherlock did not care. He just lay there helplessly as John cleaned him, using his tongue, and then drying him with the edge of the blanket. Finally remembering the importance of good manners [Mummy would be proud], he asked, “What about you?”

John finished making Sherlock look respectable again. “I’m fine. I just really wanted to do that. You can catch me up later.” He began to gather the plates and glasses. “I do think we should be back on the road now though.”

As they walked back to where the Leyland was parked, taking advantage of the solitude to hold hands, Sherlock glanced back at Mary of Whatever. She seemed unfazed by having witnessed fellatio. In fact it seemed as if being ridiculously fanciful was contagious, as he imagined that she was smiling gently at them.

 

*

It was early the next day when they saw it and the sudden sight surprised them both.

“Should have the bloody place marked on the road map,” John muttered, running a hand through his hair.

Sherlock drove the Leyland off the road and parked on the grassy berm before turning off the engine. For several moments, they just sat there, staring out over the field.

The vast space in front of them had very little grass growing over its surface and no one had thus far attempted to plant a crop of any sort. Even from a distance, they could see that some of the trenches had collapsed upon themselves. but others seem to have survived intact. It almost seemed as if khaki-clad infantrymen could come bursting out at any moment, ready to engage the enemy.

“Perhaps it is a being preserved as a memorial,” Sherlock said softly.

“More likely a tourist site. I expect they’ll be charging a fee for admittance soon.” Abruptly, John opened the door and slid out of his seat. “I’m going to look around,” he said.

“Shall I come with you?” Sherlock sounded uncharacteristically tentative.

John decided he didn’t like that; Sherlock was not tentative, for chrissake. He was a whirlwind of arrogance and confidence. “No,” he said, softening the rejection with a smile. “It’s fine.” Shoving both hands into the pockets of his trousers, John set off, making his way carefully across the uneven landscape.

Sherlock watched him go. Then he got out of the car as well and, after a moment’s thought, retrieved his art supplies from the boot. He actually set up the easel, propped a canvas there, and prepared his palette. By the time he made the first daub of Van Dyke brown in the center of the canvas, John’s figure was only a slowly moving dot in the distance, the blue of his jacket marking his progress as he walked the perimeter of the battlefield.

Sherlock knew that his lover was still unsettled. Was there something he should be doing? Or words he should be preparing to say when John came back? If there were such words, he was not sure he was capable of coming up with them.

He continued to apply paint to the canvas in a manner that might have appeared careless to a casual observer, but his hand was sure of what it was doing every moment. In a rectangle of browns and greys, he made a couple of marks in phthalo blue and John’s silhouette provided a small splash of colour.

Sherlock was so caught up in what he was doing that he did not even realise that John had returned until the other man spoke.

“Somehow I knew,” John said softly from where he was perched on the bonnet of the car. “That morning when I woke up, my first thought was ‘I’m going to die today.’ That’s why I left my book where Stamford could find it.”

Sherlock kept his eyes on the canvas. “Were you frightened?”

John, as was his way, did not answer quickly, but considered his words. “A bit, I suppose,” he said finally. “But, honestly, I think it was almost a relief. I was so tired.”

At last, Sherlock turned his head to look at him. “You wanted to die?”

“I wanted…to not be there anymore. It felt as if that mess was never going to end and I was just…so tired.” Again, he tousled his hair and Sherlock rather wanted to smooth the brown-gold strands down for him. “It was a great surprise to wake up in the hospital tent.”

“A good surprise?”

John shrugged. “My first thought was, jesus, I hope they don’t send me back. My second thought was that the pain was probably going to kill me so that wouldn’t be a problem.” He gave a quick smile.

Sherlock put the paintbrush down and moved to lean against the car, next to John. “But you didn’t die.”

“I did not.” John agreed. “Obviously.” The word was said tartly.

Sherlock shot him a glare. Then he took John’s hand into his own, raised it to his lips and placed a butterfly kiss onto each finger. Finally he rested his lips in the palm. “I would have been shattered if you had died that day.”

“You didn’t even know me,” John pointed out.

“Don’t be absurd.” He still had not released John’s hand. “I missed you all my life.”

There was a long silence between them.

When John broke that silence, his voice had gone slightly raspy. “I did not die that day because there was an angel watching over me.” He gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “And I don’t even believe in angels. But there you were.”

They moved even closer and Sherlock bent so that his nose was pressed into John’s neck. He took several deep breaths, which seemed to calm him. “You did not die. I did not die. Now here we are together. And neither of us is going to die.”

John’s reply was uttered into a mess of dark curls. “Well, someday…”

“Hush,” Sherlock said.

So John hushed and they just leant into one another, not talking, for a very long time. 

*

 

John was beginning to think that he’d had his fill of churches. Were there any at all along their meandering route that they had not at least paused at? It seemed unlikely. Sometimes he wondered if Sherlock was doing it as some sort of prank, dragging a non-believer into as many houses of worship as possible, although that seemed unlikely. Sherlock was many things, but he would not put Prankster amongst them.

At any rate, Sherlock seemed to be enjoying himself enormously, playing some solitary game in which he might possibly be scoring a point for every nave, apse, chancel or transept he examined.

Occasionally Sherlock would misbehave slightly, but fortunately only when just the two of them were present. John couldn’t really see the point of most of what was happening. What could be gained by lying prone in front of the altar staring intently at some second-rate painting of angels on the ceiling? Or crawling on hands and knees around a lady chapel whilst peering at the dust in each corner? Or even, bless him, tasting the holy water in the font?

Truth be told, John could not get enough of seeing Sherlock’s face, bright with curiosity and delight. Not to mention that he also enjoyed watching Sherlock’s arse as he crawled about, calling out enthusiastically when he spotted some especially interesting dirt or candle wax droppings. When that happened, John would walk closer, peer down, and then nod. “Interesting.” he would say.

So, really, both of them were enjoying themselves.

Even given his ecclesiastical weariness, John had to admit that the Santa Coloma church, an ancient structure with an impressive circular Roman tower, had been interesting. Sherlock, for some reason, seemed convinced that more than one unfortunate victim had been tossed from that tower over the centuries. Later, John pointed out that there was no mention of such a thing in the tiny church guide he’d picked up.

The snort he got in response to that comment was elegant in its complete disdain for John’s words. “Do you think they would admit that in print?”

John had wanted to admonish Sherlock for leaning so far over the wall of the tower to trace the trajectory of a body and nearly giving him a heart attack in the process. But he could imagine the indignation that would follow any such admonishment, so instead he carefully kept a hand on Sherlock’s arm, just in case. 

Later, only half teasing, he said, “Perhaps you should have been a detective rather than an artist.”

They were in the candle-lit dining room of the inn where they were spending the night, having a belated dinner. The meal was a local delicacy comprised of pork, cheese and a lot of garlic, all served from a clay pot, and washed down with a very nice local beer.

Sherlock sent him a small smile. “I did consider it, you know. Not joining the police obviously, but becoming a private investigator. When the idiots at the Yard got flummoxed, which is always, they would come to me for help.”

“Would they come to a civilian?” John asked skeptically.

“Not an ordinary civilian, of course. But I am not ordinary. They would want to consult with me.”

Well, John could not argue with that.

Sherlock chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “Have I not told you about the murder I solved when I was twelve?”

John froze with the fork halfway to his mouth. “You did, really? Tell me now!”

The modest shrug was not really something Sherlock could accomplish very well, but he tried. “Oh, it was a simple enough case, really. A young boy from Dublin, Carl Powers, was in London for a swimming competition and he drowned. Everyone assumed it was a tragic accident. A cramp or some such foolishness. What no one noticed or cared about was that his boots went missing.”

“His boots?” John could not really see where this whole thing was going, but he nodded encouragingly.

“Yes. All the rest of his belongings were in the changing room, but his new boots were gone. No one could see the obvious.”

John was afraid he was only seeing the obvious. “Someone stole them?”

Sherlock gave a small sigh and not for the first time John realised that ordinary human failings which, in others, drove Sherlock mad, in his case were met with only mild disappointment. “The killer took the boots, John. To hide the evidence. Possibly as a trophy as well. It was murder.”

“How was the murder committed?”

“I assume it was poison of some sort. Probably on the boots.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, as if he were still trying to figure it out.

John smiled. “Everyone must have been very grateful for your help.”

The look Sherlock gave him was unreadable. “Oh, John, do you think anyone paid the slightest attention to what I said? The verdict was accidental death and so someone got away with murder, my vehement protests aside.” Sherlock leaned back in his chair. “I would have been an excellent detective, but after that experience I decided not to bother. There have been one or two little mysteries along the way since then, but I solved them just for my own amusement.” He exhaled. “At least they were more interesting than most of what my brother had me doing during the war.”

“Which was?”

“Oh, spy games. Other than the occasional near-death experience, it was all quite dull. And he actually thought I might work for him again after the war. Absurd.”

John shook his head a little. “Instead you are a brilliant artist. You are amazing.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Of course. You are extraordinary, quite extraordinary.”

A silence fell between them as they finished the meal. The dining room itself was quiet as well at this hour, with only a few other diners still there. Most of them seemed to be genial locals who had come for dinner at the only real restaurant in the small village. Soft conversations were punctuated by the occasional clatter of cutlery.

For a reason that he could not really explain, John felt his gaze returning several times to a man sitting alone in the corner. His blond good looks and muscular build had not escaped the notice of the waitress, who visited the table more often than was usual to check that everything was fine. Sherlock seemed not to have noticed him, his gaze staying on John.

“What?” John said finally.

“You do understand, John, that the rest of the world does not see me as you do.”

“Well, I should hope not,”John said lightly.

But Sherlock shook his head. “No. I mean… No one else has ever seen this Sherlock Holmes. A man who utters romantic phrases dripping in sentiment. One who hungers for the touch of another person. A cynic who now believes in love.” He stopped, as if frustrated by the inadequacy of his words.

John wanted more than anything to reach out and touch him now, but instead settled for just pressing his knee against Sherlock’s bonier one under the cover of the tablecloth. “My love,” he said in a whisper. “What the rest of the world thinks of you or of me or, most especially, of us does not matter. We will be our own universe.”

Sherlock nodded and then finished the rest of his beer.

John glanced at the man in the corner yet again and suddenly knew why he seemed familiar. “He’s a body snatcher,” he said softly.

Sherlock smiled again. “I wondered if you had noticed.”

“You had?”

“Of course. As soon as he came into the room. But well done, John.”

It almost didn’t even sound patronising. John shrugged. “Suppose I should say he used to be a sniper. For all I know, he could now be a travelling salesman dealing in ladies undergarments.”

But Sherlock shook his head. “No. I believe he is still active as a sniper.”

“Wouldn’t think there would be much demand for his talents these days,” John pointed out.

“Oh, John, you would be surprised,” Sherlock replied darkly.

“What is he doing here, do you think?”

“Having dinner?” Sherlock suggested.

John frowned, but didn’t argue.

The man was still sitting there when they left the dining room to walk upstairs to their room.

 

John was slow coming to bed because his mind kept wandering back to both the man in the dining room and Sherlock’s words, which distracted him from washing and teeth cleaning. But finally he left the tiny lav and crawled into bed next to Sherlock, who was leaning against the plain wooden headboard, smoking and staring at the wall.

Sherlock almost absently lifted an arm and John scooted to lie pressed against him, resting his head on the other man’s bicep. “Do you think---?”

“Always,” Sherlock interrupted.

“Smart arse,” John said swatting his thigh. “I was wondering…do you think your brother is having us followed?”

“If you mean by the man in the dining room, I would doubt it. Mycroft has many faults, but actively wanting me dead is not one of them. Usually. Although probably only because it would upset Mummy.” Abruptly, Sherlock crushed out the cigarette and slipped down to lie beside John. “We shouldn’t waste time talking about either my odious brother or itinerant snipers,” he said. “In fact, we needn’t be talking at all, in my opinion.”

John smiled at him. “Is there something better to do?”

“Ha.” With that, Sherlock suddenly slid down and with no more words, took John’s prick into his mouth.

“Oh, that is better,”John said.

Sherlock hummed his agreement and set enthusiastically to his task, which was apparently to drive John half-mad. He sucked quickly, bringing his lover to the brink of orgasm, then backing off, licking softly, slowly, contemplatively. John would begin to drift and then the ruthless sucking would begin again.

John had no idea how long the lovemaking lasted, but finally, finally, Sherlock seemed to get serious and, still using his mouth and now also his fingers at the entrance of John’s arse, he gave John a shattering climax that had him practically sobbing Sherlock’s name.

All John could do was reach out one trembling hand and bring Sherlock off with a few strokes. Sherlock gave a sigh and settled down next to him again, ignoring the mess they had made of the bed. “A good day,” he mumbled into John’s collarbone.

And even taking into account talk of a meddling brother and a brooding body snatcher, John agreed with that. “Yes,” he breathed and then they both slept.

*

Sherlock woke only two hours later. He did not leave the bed, tangled as he was in John’s limbs. He stared at the ceiling and thought about his brother and snipers and sneering Irish madmen. For the first time ever, he sincerely hoped that Mycroft was keeping a careful eye out. It was possible that a postcard would not go amiss. After a time, he buried his nose in John’s neck and tried not to think at all.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Twenty-five: Reaching For The Sun


	25. Reaching The Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trip draws to a close in the heat and sun of Madrid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, folks. Thought I should mention that this chapter contains a bullfight. Rest assured that I have been no more nor less graphic than necessary for the story.

Love-thou art deep-  
I cannot cross thee-  
But, were there Two  
Instead of One-who knows-  
but we might reach the Sun?

-Emily Dickinson

“You seem to have a very odd idea of what constitutes romance,” John murmured. “Has no one before me ever mentioned that to you?”

Sherlock barely glanced at him, but even that brief look managed to convey the extent of disdain engendered by his teasing remark. “John, surely you must realise that no one before you has ever had either cause or opportunity to notice such a thing,” he replied curtly.

“Ahh, yes,” John said, deciding in an instant that Sherlock really did know how to speak romantically. At almost the same time, he knew that he would never say that aloud, because such words might lead to Sherlock never saying anything as nice again.

The truth was that while John clearly recognised the quirks in Sherlock’s nature that put so many people off, at the same time he could scarcely believe that no one before him had seen the value of making the effort to understand the truth of Sherlock Holmes. The wonder of him. Had no one seen that Sherlock was…well, practically perfect? And also completely impossible, of course.

Then Sherlock half-smiled in his direction. “In any event, John, you are mine already, so why would I bother to ‘romance’ you anymore?”

Irritating sod.

But the very idea that he was standing in this particular place, talking about romance with this particular man, was so ridiculous that all John could do was laugh softly. Sherlock winked at him.

John still had absolutely no idea why they were in the Legazpi neighborhood at all, strolling amongst the vast complex of elaborately carved stone and brick buildings. It might have been an impressive sight to anyone interested in such things, but John was too over-whelmed by the horrendous smells filling the air to appreciate the architecture.

Sherlock had deigned only to tell him that the complex was the main slaughterhouse of Madrid, so John at least knew that much, but no further information had been forthcoming. John rather thought that a man who’d been dragged from his bed before dawn [following a night that had been filled with activities other than sleeping for the most part} was owed some sort of explanation. But he’d only bothered to ask once, in a sleep-fogged voice, as he pulled on his clothing. There had been no reply, save some inarticulate noises indicating that he was taking entirely too long buttoning his trousers.

Early in their relationship it might still have been, but John had already learned when it was best not to question, but to just accept the circumstances and follow Sherlock down whatever mad path he’d chosen to wander. Or dash pell-mell down, more like.

It probably should have been more disturbing than it was to realise that John was fairly convinced that he would be willing to follow Sherlock even into the bowels of hell should it prove necessary.

Mulling over those things, he more or less agreeably just trailed after Sherlock, who was drawing rapidly in his Moleskine, apparently unfazed by or perhaps not even noticing the miasma that surrounded them. “The stink doesn’t bother you, then?” John finally had to ask.

“Hmm?” was the only reply.

So John gave up and just tried to pretend that oxygen intake was optional for a human being.

A few minutes later, although still drawing, Sherlock finally broke his silence. “The old women of Madrid come down here very early in the morning,” he said. “They want to drink the fresh blood, believing that it has medicinal qualities.”

“Ugh,” John said with a grimace.

Sherlock smirked. “How eloquent. From one of the leading authors of his generation.”

“Would you like me to speak eloquently to you?” It was a threat.

“Perhaps not,” Sherlock allowed, clearly recognizing the tone. He paused in his drawing, studying the page. “Occasionally the matadors come as well, to practice on the bulls before they are slaughtered,” he continued absently after a moment.

“So, really, the poor beasts don’t stand a chance, do they?” John murmured.

Sherlock closed the sketchbook with a snap. “None of us do, John, in the long run.”

And John knew that was absolutely true, of course, but it still seemed a sudden and devastating bit of reality. Without even realising what he was doing, he reached out and touched Sherlock’s hand, not quite seeking comfort. Or offering it.

Sherlock looked at him, blinking several times, and then turned his hand so that he could grasp John’s fingers. “Not until we are both very old and grey,” he said quietly.

John nodded. He assumed that Sherlock would release his hold, but instead he used the grip to pull him even closer. “I will ask only one thing of you, John,” he whispered.

“What’s that?” John had no idea what to expect.

Sherlock ducked his head. “When the time comes, I must go first. This request is extraordinarily selfish of me, of course, but I have never pretended to be otherwise. But there is really no other possibility, because I am aware that living without you would not suit me at all.”

John swallowed hard, but he still could not speak.

Now Sherlock smiled faintly. “You are by far the stronger man, John.” Finally releasing John’s hand, he shoved the Moleskine into his pocket. “Breakfast, I think,” he said briskly, striding away.

John was far from certain that he would have much of an appetite after experiencing the stench of the slaughterhouse, but nevertheless he followed Sherlock.

Of course.

*

 

After a morning that had been spent wandering around the slaughterhouses, John was not in the least surprised when that afternoon found him sitting in LasVentas, section nine, the place Hemingway raved about endlessly, waiting for la corrida de toros. He was far from convinced that the entire experience was going to be anything that he would enjoy. Already he was weary of the heat, the dust, the noise. The festivities had not even started yet, but the air was already thick with the ancient memory of death and blood. Apparently, death and blood were the themes of the day. It made him think of the battlefield.

Just what one wanted whilst on a holiday with his new lover.

Speaking of. Sherlock, of course, was fascinated by everything happening around him, taking notes and making impossibly rapid sketches. Despite the unpleasant aspects, John enjoyed watching the man work. Probably much more than he should. Still, it would have been nice to have a pint with which to wash away the grit in his throat. He coughed. “So are you planning to paint this?” he finally asked, waving a hand to indicate the whole scene.

Sherlock shook his head without really looking at John. “No. But I never know. One day a famous toreador might walk into my studio and want his portrait done. To understand him, I need to understand this. His milieu.” After a moment, Sherlock seemed to realise that John was staring at him. “What?”

John smiled sheepishly. “Nothing, really. You are…a marvel.”

“Am I?”

John only nodded.

Sherlock flicked him a smile. “You do talk utter rot,” he said, but his tone was obviously pleased. “And you say it all aloud.”

“Shall I stop flattering you, then?”

“No. It’s…fine.” 

After a moment, Sherlock returned to work and John continued to watch him, because he could not help himself.

It was only a short time before the blast of a trumpet rang through the afternoon air and then a band struck up a spritely tune as the principals in the proceedings entered the arena to salute the dignitaries in attendance.

To help himself understand what was going on, John tried to remember everything he’d heard Hemingway say about it. Sadly, he tended to simply stop listening to the man after a few minutes. The gold of the toreadors’ costumes glittered in the bright sunshine. It was all completely absurd.

John bent close to Sherlock’s ear. “Is it very wrong for me to sympathise with the poor beasts?” he said softly.

Sherlock smirked. “Do you imagine that I am surprised by that, John? You are much too tender-hearted.”

John was still trying to decide if he should be offended by that remark when Sherlock spoke again. “A quality from which I benefit daily, of course.”

Sherlock did not smile as he spoke, was not even looking his way, but the words brought a surge of warmth to John’s chest.

The whole afternoon was quite horrid. He tried not to wince every time the picador stuck the bull with his lance, but continuing to watch became even more difficult when the trio of banderillas, wanting to anger the bull even further, each planted two sharp, barbed sticks into the shoulders of the bloody beast, who seemed to groan each time.

To John, it seemed to take a very long time before the third and final part of the ritual began, with the matador’s entrance into the ring, holding the muleta in one hand and a sword in the other. He waved the small red cape with a flourish.

John looked at Sherlock, who was watching carefully, not with pleasure or excitement, but with the grave intensity that John had only rarely seen on his face. It made him almost wish that this matador would come to Sherlock for a portrait, because John could imagine the painting that would result.

At last, the bloody, staggering beast was put out of his suffering by a stab of the sword that went between his shoulder blades into his heart. The crowd roared its approval and an ear was awarded to the matador.

As they made their way towards the exit, having seen more than enough, John pressed a hand into Sherlock’s bicep. “I don’t want to do that ever again,” he said.

“There is no need to do so,” Sherlock replied, pocketing his sketchbook. “I know everything I need to.” Then he cast John a glance with eyes that seemed especially verdant at the moment and smiled softly.

As they continued to walk, John told himself that there were probably any number of foreigners in the crowd and probably at least a few of them were tall, muscular blond men who would seem vaguely familiar to him. He said nothing to Sherlock about the man standing half-hidden in a doorway because it wasn’t necessary.

*

It was a warm, sultry night, so rather than sit in the stuffy [albeit luxurious] hotel room to drink the bottle of French white wine that Sherlock had produced from his valise, they went out onto the balcony. They overlooked the boulevard, but it was late enough that the night was almost peaceful.

John sat in one of the rattan chairs, but Sherlock ignored the second one, dropping to the floor and leaning back against John’s legs. He nudged at John’s hand, until with a soft laugh the other man’s fingers began to move through Sherlock’s curls. “We have had a bloody odd day, haven’t we?” he said finally.

“Yes, and wasn’t it marvelous?” Sherlock said, sounding like a child on Christmas morning.

“You are a madman,” John replied fondly.

“I am.”

“And I love you, so what does that make me?”

“Unique,” Sherlock said promptly.

“And extremely fortunate,” John murmured after a moment.

For several minutes they were silent, sipping the wine and raising their faces into the moonlight as if it were the sun. Finally, John’s fingers stilled. “Are we ready to go back?” The question was asked very quietly.

“Must we?”

John gave a soft laugh. “Yes. Sadly.”

Sherlock moved his head to remind John what his fingers were supposed to be doing. “What happens when we do?”

John didn’t say anything.

“Are you going back to her?” Sherlock’s voice was harsh.

John was stunned by the question. How could Sherlock even think that, after everything that had happened between them? “Do you imagine that I would?”

Sherlock twisted and looked at John. “I don’t know. This is all new to me, John.” Then he seemed to realise how his words must have sounded. “I mean, will you live in the flat again?” 

“I will not go back to her. Or to the flat. I shall be homeless.”

“Live with me.” Sherlock said promptly.

“Is that what you want, Sherlock?”

“I already told you what I want, John,” Sherlock said, his voice sharp now. “Living together seems necessary to the rest of it.”

John leaned down and kissed Sherlock’s cheek in a chaste manner. “Of course I will live with you.”

They smiled at one another.

After a few more minutes the wine was gone and by mutual agreement they stood and went back into the room. They took undressing in turn. First John unbuttoned the navy blue and white pinstriped waistcoat and the linen shirt, gently pulling them off at the same time. He bent to plant a row of kissed across Sherlock’s chest, from his left nipple to the right. Then he unfastened the trousers, pushing them down, followed by the silk pants. Sherlock rested a hand against the wall and lifted first one foot and then the other so John could remove the trousers and pants. Sherlock was already barefooted, so now he stood in the ivory moonlight completely naked, an ethereal being of pale alabaster and shadows, with his prick already lifting and damp at the tip. “You are still my angel,” John whispered against the flesh of his belly.

Sherlock pulled him up and lowered John’s braces. Shirt, trousers, undergarments were soon in a pile of the floor. He traced the scar of John’s wound, paying homage as he did every time. “My brave soldier,” he said, before leading John to the bed and pressing him down into the goose down. “You are a miracle, John, and I have never thought miracles were real. One day, there you were and I have been changed forever. I can never go back to what I was, so you can never leave me.” As he spoke, his hands and lips and tongue and teeth moved down John’s body. “Can I fuck you?” he said in a deep voice. “I want to fuck you tonight.”

John could only nod, biting his lip.

Sherlock reached across to the small table by the bed, still watching John, and found the bottle. He lifted John’s hand and poured oil into the palm. “Prepare me,” he ordered.

John moved his hand up and down Sherlock’s prick until it was coated and glistening. Then Sherlock put more oil onto his fingers and began to massage and probe at John’s entrance. Both men were breathing heavily and in unison. As Sherlock began to slowly push himself into John, he started to speak, not words, just nonsense phrases punctuated by the frequent repetition of “John, John, John.”

As for John himself, he could only continue to gasp and then, as the so-welcome invasion pushed past the last barrier and Sherlock began to move, hitting the secret spot, John keened, not even trying to muffle the sound.

As Sherlock got closer to completion, John took his own prick in hand and moved his fist quickly up and down, so that they could come as one. It was hot and messy and very nearly violent when they both exploded with what seemed like a single shout.

It was perfect.

Not bothering to even think of cleaning up, they wrapped themselves together and slept.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Twenty-six: Nearer Home Today


	26. Nearer Home Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Paris, life intrudes. As does Mycroft. And Moriarty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for the kudos and comments. They always cheer me enormously. In a little while, I will be heading for the Museum of London for a panel called Who Is The Best Holmes. Ready to fight my corner!

I am nearer home today than  
I have ever been before.

-Phoebe Cary

 

There was a glittering shaft of morning sunlight coming in through the window, because they had forgotten to draw the curtains the night before. Extremely tired from the long day of travelling, they had simply peeled off their dusty clothing and fallen into bed, only a quick brush of lips serving as a goodnight.

The sunlight dissected the room and came to rest as a golden puddle on the bed. That was not the sort of thing Sherlock would usually notice, unless, of course, he was planning to paint the scene. And there was a thought. The light, the rumpled white bed linen, the man curled in the middle of it all, still sleeping. Without consciously meaning to do so, Sherlock started selecting hues and angles and his fingers twitched a bit, as if holding a pencil.

But then it occurred that he did not really want the rest of the world seeing John this way.

Had he ever before allowed sentiment to dictate his art?

It seemed as if he were now living in a whole new universe, a universe in which Sherlock Holmes was a different creature. A being constructed of emotion.

A man in love.

It was absurd, really, and he was glad to know that the power of rational thought had not abandoned him completely. He could recognise the ridiculousness of his situation, but the truth was, he didn’t care.

Not when he had awakened with his body entrapped in the arms and legs of John Watson, a tender sort of restraint that he did not mind at all.

“Morning,” John mumbled damply into his neck.

Sherlock grunted.

“Your bedroom is very tidy,” John said. “Unlike the rest of the place.”

“Of course it is,” Sherlock replied, thinking that no further explanation would be required.

“I shall feel quite guilty upsetting all of this order with my things.”

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, picturing his stocking index in complete disarray. “I will organise everything,” he then said firmly. “The various indices are expandable.”

John chuckled. “I won’t even pretend to understand what that is supposed to mean.” He pressed his lips to Sherlock’s temple.

“Never mind. I want you here,” Sherlock said. “You belong here.”

After a moment, John loosened his hold and rested back against the pillows. His fingers began a careful detangling of Sherlock’s curls. “I need to go see Mary today,” he said. “There are things we have to discuss and I need to pack. And I know that you have to go see Lestrade. The note that was waiting for you sounded urgent.”

Sherlock snorted disdainfully. “Lestrade is French. Everything is urgent to him.” Then he sat up as well, looking at John, who was still sleep-rumpled and slightly pink from the Spanish sun. “She’ll try to change your mind,” he said flatly. “To make you come back to her.” It only made sense, because who, having once awakened next to John looking all rumpled and pink, could bear to lose him?

John shook his head. “No, she absolutely won’t. Mary is ready to move on as well.”

Sherlock frowned. “She can really let you go?”

John gave a soft laugh. “She may possibly have my things already in the trunk.”

The woman was obviously an idiot and Sherlock dismissed her from his recently created universe.

“You know it wouldn’t matter anyway, right?” John said seriously. “There is only one person I want to be with.”

They just looked at one another for a long moment.

“Christ, I need tea,” John said then. “Shall I make us some?”

And Sherlock beamed at him.

*

 

While it was not quite true that Mary had packed up all of his belongings, there was still a palpable feeling, as soon as he’d walked in through the door, that John no longer belonged in this flat. And that was even before he saw the unfamiliar straight razor in the bathroom or the pipe and tobacco pouch sitting on the table by the window.

Mary herself was sitting in her usual chair at the table, typing furiously, obviously working on deadline again. She greeted him absently and asked about the trip. Had he enjoyed himself?

He opened his mouth, but then decided to censor the words that seemed eager to emerge. Probably they would be inappropriate in the circumstance. “It was good,” was all he said finally.

She only nodded in response.

John decided to finish packing and then they could talk.

It didn’t take him very long to get everything gathered and put into the trunk he’d brought it all in from London. After a final check of the cupboards and drawers, he walked back into the main room. “I’ll send someone to collect my trunk later today,” he said.

Mary stopped typing and settled back in the chair. “So,” she said.

John sat in the other chair and they just looked at one another for a long moment. “We were so young,” he said finally.

“In a world gone mad,” Mary added. “We needed something, someone, to cling on to.”

John’s finger traced an invisible line on the worn wooden tabletop. “It wasn’t only that,” he said. “I hope not anyway.”

Mary’s face softened in a way he had not seen in a very long time. “No, John,” she said. “It wasn’t only that.”

With two faint smiles, they began talking finances and other details of ending a relationship. As the conversation started to wind down, Mary made coffee and they sat in a quiet that was actually comfortable as they drank and nibbled some madeleines, which seemed rather poignantly appropriate.

“So,” Mary said finally, picking up some crumbs with her fingertip, then licking them off. “Sherlock Holmes.”

John felt a slight heat rise in his face. “Yes,” was what he said, firmly.

“Bit of a surprise that.”

“To me as well.”

She eyed him. “But it’s real?”

“Very real.”

“Well, good for you, then.” She sounded genuinely pleased for him.

John thought briefly of asking about the straight razor and the pipe, but then decided that, if she did not mention it, neither should he. 

Only a few minutes later, they embraced fleetingly and he left the flat.

The shiny black Rolls was sitting in front of the building, its engine purring almost silently. The rear passenger door opened and he could just see the figure of a young woman in a simple but elegant dress sitting inside. “Good day, Mr. Watson,” she said in perfectly enunciated English. “Please get in.”

“Excuse me?” he said.

“You have an appointment.”

He was quite certain that he did not, in fact, have any engagements scheduled. “Sorry, but---”

The woman sighed. “I was told to say that it concerns a Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

John still didn’t like it, but after a moment he just took a deep breath and got into the automobile.

*

 

  
Sherlock had certain concerns regarding the summons from Lestrade, but he deliberately chose not to share those concerns with John. That decision stemmed from the fact that he had recently realised that it was quite important to him that John was happy. It was the first time in his life that Sherlock Holmes had concerned himself in the slightest with anyone else’s state of being. In actual fact, neither had he concerned himself with his own contentment or lack thereof very often. Life was simply to be gotten on with.

But now, having glimpsed something else, he was determined to grasp the possibility of happiness and to share it with John.

Once John had left to go see that woman, Sherlock washed and dressed in a black suit, bisque shirt, and severe black waistcoat. It felt as if he were donning a uniform before going into battle. The exact specifications of said battle remained unclear, but he needed to be prepared. Once ready, he decided to walk to the gallery, primarily to give himself the opportunity to recalibrate his mood. It would not do to appear contented in front of Lestrade.

That recalibration must have been only partially successful, however,because Lestrade greeted him with a far-too-smug smile. “You seem preternaturally cheerful,” the gallery owner said. “An unusual look on you, but I could get used to it.”

Sherlock just sneered at him, before walking over to stand in front of and contemplate John’s portrait. After a long moment, he turned towards Lestrade. “Well? You insisted I should come here. I assume it was important.”

“Yes. Very important. More good news actually.” Lestrade was definitely pleased about something. “It looks as if we might finally have the chance of getting you onto the art scene in America.”

An American connection was something that had always interested Lestrade a great deal more than it did Sherlock, so he only shrugged.

Lestrade frowned at his apparent lack of enthusiasm. “A wealthy patron wants to personally finance an exhibition of your work at one of the most prestigious galleries in New York City.”

And there it was. Sherlock knew immediately that this was what he had been expecting to hear. “A wealthy patron?” he said carefully.

“Yes,” Lestrade said. “He speaks very highly of your work and wants it to reach a larger audience.”

“I’m sure,” Sherlock said drily.

“He has been in several times and, in fact---” Lestrade glanced at his watch. “I was expecting---oh, here he is now.”

Sherlock didn’t even bother to turn around.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes,” said Moriarty in a lilting tone. “I see you’re back from your travels. And how was Spain? Did it live up to your expectations?”

Still not looking at him, Sherlock shrugged. “Everything exceeded expectations,” he said lightly. “To a most delightful degree.”

“So glad,” Moriarty said, sounding anything but.

Lestrade looked a little bewildered. “You two have met?”

“Did Moriarty fail to mention that? I have been painting his portrait.”

“Oh.” Lestrade forced another smile. “Well, fine. Sherlock, Mr. Moriarty is quite eager to sponsor your introduction to America.”

“Not interested.” Sherlock’s voice was flat. 

“What?”

Moriarty only smiled. “Come, Holmes. You certainly don’t want to deprive the heathens in America of your genius.”

“They can come to Paris, if they’re that interested.”

Lestrade looked as if he were barely controlling his temper. “Sherlock, I don’t know what game you’re playing here, but you need to just let me handle this.”

Moriarty didn’t appear to be paying attention. He wandered closer to John’s portrait and peered at it, smirking slightly.

Sherlock forced himself to remain calm, although he surprised himself with how much he hated to have Moriarty looking at even an image of John. “I am almost finished with your portrait, Moriarty, and once that is done I will have no further interest in any connection to you.”

 

“So you say,” Moriarty murmured.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said. “We need to discuss this.”

“There is nothing to discuss, Lestrade.”

“But this is a marvelous opportunity for you.”

Moriarty strolled back towards them, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers, an easy smile on his face. “Oh, do not concern yourself, Monsieur Lestrade. Dear Holmes will have his little games, but in the end he will succumb.”

“Not in this lifetime,” Sherlock muttered.

It was irritating how unruffled Moriarty remained, although Sherlock thought that he could remember the feeling of being unruffled himself. Of being untouched by anything as base as emotion.

“Nonsense,” Moriarty said, still cheerful. “Everyone goes along with me eventually.” Then something darker entered his voice. “I just need to find the most useful pressure point. Every person has one.” Then he smiled again and tipped his hat. “Monsieur. Sherlock. Until next time.” Then he was gone.

Lestrade was tight-lipped. “Would you mind telling me just what that was all about?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said with a dismissive gesture. “Don’t worry about it.” He started for the door and then paused. “Make no deals with him. I meant what I said, Lestrade.”

“But---”

Sherlock did not stay to hear whatever Lestrade might say.

*

 

The Rolls Royce pulled right into what looked like an abandoned factory, a former armaments manufacturing site if he was reading the fading French signs correctly. When John did not immediately disembark, the young woman looked up from the stenographer’s pad into which she had been scribbling during the entire journey and sighed. Then she leaned across him and opened the door.

 

John took the hint and stepped out of the automobile.

The vast room seemed to be empty, save for one man apparently waiting for him, leaning lightly onto a furled umbrella, and watching John’s approach.

John was also studying him: a tall, slender man who seemed to emit disdain from every pore, and most telling of all, who was watching him with a pair of eyes that, while they did not share the distinctive grey-green colour to which John was so accustomed, were equally perceptive and knowing. John allowed a faint smile to touch just the corners of his mouth. “I assume you are Mycroft Holmes,” he said, stopping in front of the man.

Was that mild surprise in the gaze? “Oh, very good, Mr. Watson,” the perfectly British voice said. “So my brother has mentioned me? I am pleased.”

“Mentioned you? Yes. Sherlock says you are an enormously interfering prig who has ambitions to rule the Empire, but still takes the time to monitor his brother’s life.”

Holmes shrugged modestly. “Luckily I can accomplish more than one task at a time.” Abruptly, the gaze hardened. “I understand that congratulations are in order.”

John suddenly realised that this man held enormous power, apparently had tea with the King regularly and regarded members of Parliament as just so many chess pieces to be moved about on the board as he desired. Such a man might not best pleased to be confronting the man who was breaking the law by buggering his little brother.

It was hardly surprising that Holmes seemed to read his thoughts easily and then oddly reassuring that he brushed them off with a gesture. “Oh, please, Mr. Watson, I do not bother myself with the petty moral strictures of the. bourgeois.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it? Then why am I here?”

“Perhaps I simply wanted to meet the man who seems to have finally discovered that Sherlock Holmes does indeed have a heart.”

John tilted his head and looked at Holmes curiously. “Did you doubt that fact?”

Holmes’ laugh was brief and a bit rusty as if it did not get brought out very often. “Oh, I always suspected that, despite my best efforts to discourage it, my brother had a well-hidden streak of sentimentality.”

John toyed with the notion of asking why Holmes had wanted to discourage that, but then decided not to bother. “You have me taken off the street and brought here just to meet me? Sherlock’s remarks about your love of byzantine plots were quite accurate, it seems.”

Holmes didn’t respond to that. Instead, he said, “I would be prepared to offer you a substantial sum of money each month in exchange for regular reports on my brother.”

“Reports?”

“Oh, nothing indiscreet, nothing regarding his…personal life.” The words were thick with distaste. “But he does tend to wander into difficulties so often. I worry about him constantly. And so does Mummy.”

“Do you think I need money?”

“Everyone always wants more.”

“Ha.” Then John shook his head. “I won’t tell you anything about Sherlock.”

Holmes looked slightly disappointed, but also a bit pleased.

“Also,” John said, “you needn’t worry about your brother. I will do the worrying now, if there is any to be done.”

“Fine. But be careful, because there are…indications of some problems ahead.”

John just looked at him for a moment, then turned and started back towards the Rolls. “I am going home now,” he said. “I’ll be sure to give Sherlock your regards.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Watson.”

John wondered when his life had taken such a turn towards the odd. If he wrote all of this up in a novel, no one would believe it.

*

 

Sherlock was disappointed to find the studio empty when he returned from the gallery. He had expected, wanted, to find John there. After the encounter with Moriarty, he wanted nothing more than to grab John and hold on as tightly as he could. Briefly, he wondered at the intensity of his feelings. Was it possible that, after having been ignored and despised for so long, that his emotions now felt free to engulf him? Drown him? 

A stubborn part of his mind was made discontented by the reality in which he now existed. But then, standing at the window of his studio, he saw John walk around the corner and approach the building. Immediately, Sherlock banished any irritation. John was home.

As soon as John entered, Sherlock wrapped him in a tight embrace. John seemed surprised at the emotional welcome, but after a moment, he returned the hug. “All right, then?” he asked after a few moments.

Sherlock only nodded.

“Tea, I think,” John murmured. He gently disentangled himself and went into the small kitchen.

“You’re so very English,” Sherlock said lightly, following him and sitting at the table.

John took two cups from the cabinet as the kettle began to heat. “I thought my tea-making skill was one of my charms,” he said.

“Definitely.”

“You’re a funny man. In the sense of amusing, not odd,” John clarified.

“Probably in both senses, I should think.”

They were both silent until the tea was made and John was sitting at the table across from Sherlock.

“How did it go with Mary?”

“It went fine. I think we rather ended up as friends.”

Sherlock was not sure how he felt about that, so he didn’t say anything.

“What did Lestrade want?”

He did not want to think about that. “Nothing important. You were a long while.”

“Yes, because the kidnapping took some time.”

Sherlock barely managed to not drop his cup. “Kidnapping?” For one fleeting moment, he thought of Moriarty, but then dismissed the idea. The man would not be that ridiculous.

“ Well, I don’t suppose your brother thought of it as a kidnapping.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said in disgust. “What the hell did he do?”

“Had me collected by a lovely young lady in a black automobile and delivered to an empty building so that he could interrogate me. Apparently, he worries about you.”

“That has always been his claim. Has he put you off me?” The words were said lightly, but Sherlock did not look at John as he said them.

“Ha. That was a joke, I hope?”

“Of course it was,” Sherlock half-lied. A moment later, he stood and held out a hand. “Come to bed with me, John.”

“It’s the middle of the day, you know.”

“And is that relevant?”

“I suppose not.” John took his hand and allowed himself to be lead into the bedroom.

Once there, he seemed to sense exactly what Sherlock was feeling, what he needed, and so John allowed himself to be undressed, slowly, carefully, reverently. There was nothing of urgency in Sherlock’s actions, yet each touch was filled with desperation. As he uncovered John’s body, inch by inch, he touched his lips to the skin being bared. The touches were scarcely even kisses; they were affirmations and perhaps questions.

He was barely aware of John’s voice whispering “Yesyesyesyes.” A response to the question his lips were asking. When John was naked, stretched out on the bed, need clearly written on his face, in the jutting of his cock, Sherlock took his own clothes off with the same deliberate lack of speed.

Then he dropped onto the bed and crawled up John’s body. Their erections touched, hot velvet and steel, and both men groaned. While the disrobing might have been languid what came next was not. They rutted and grabbed, leaving trails of sweat and salvia across flushed skin and very soon Sherlock took both erections in hand and pumped them together. Once, twice, three times and they both came. It lasted forever and it ended much too soon.

At last, Sherlock lowered himself next to John and pulled the other man to him, heedless of the sticky mess that would glue them together, and within moments they were both asleep.

*

It was several hours later when John awoke from what had been a dreamless sleep. Evening had arrived and then transformed into nighttime and the world seemed a quiet place. When it became clear that sleep would not return, he managed to wriggle himself free from the octopus-like limbs that were wrapped around him, ignoring both the unhappy mutterings of the still-sleeping man in the bed and the vaguely unpleasant sensation of cum-dried skin peeling apart. He went into the bathroom, relieved his bladder and then gave his body a quick wash, before swishing some water around his fuzzy mouth.

Feeling rather more human, he walked back into the bedroom, where Sherlock was still sleeping. He was, in fact, snoring just a little, which made John smile a little. Sometimes it was nice to see that the elegant, brilliant creature was also a human just like the rest of them. 

Still feeling restless, John grabbed and pulled on a dressing gown that puddled on the floor around his feet, before walking into the studio. The light coming in from outside, a pale mix of the moon and the solitary lamp by the kerb, gave him enough illumination by which to cross to the window so that he could look down at the street below. A solitary milk wagon proceeded slowly along, the ancient horse needing no guidance from the driver who seemed half-asleep.

John’s thoughts circled back around to the lovemaking of earlier. There had been an edge of desperation in Sherlock’s behavior that was slightly troubling [albeit at the same time undisputedly exciting.] Something had quite obviously upset him during the visit to Lestrade, but John already knew his lover well enough to accept the fact that it would do no good to ask him about it. None at all. Sherlock would speak only in his own time. John would have to cultivate patience and not only in this instance. He suspected that particular virtue would be very useful over his years with Sherlock Holmes.

Years.

He rested his forehead against the cool glass of the window. Years. The rest of his years? Yes, that sounded right. Already, there was no way that he could imagine a life without Sherlock in it.

And if that were not completely terrifying, John did not know what was.

He continued to stare down at the pavement below, imagining sinister shadows hovering just beyond his gaze. Was that a figure, standing in the darkness, watching him?

Of course it wasn’t, John chastised himself firmly.

He shook off the foolish thought and decided that perhaps he should just go back to bed.

In the bedroom, he shook off the dressing gown, and crawled in next to Sherlock, who immediately moved to wrap around him again, murmuring soft bits of nonsense that clearly spoke of affection.

John settled down into the embrace, closed his eyes and very soon was asleep again.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Twenty-seven: So I Live To Know


	27. So I Live To Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody is making plans. Some of the plans are good. Some not so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it has been a while since I reminded you all that these characters do not belong to me. Too bad. From my perspective, anyway. Sherlock and John have yet to be heard on the subject.

He touched me, so I live  
to know…  
And now I’m different from  
before, as if I breathed  
superior air…

-Emily Dickinson

 

The portrait was nearly finished, a fact which relieved Sherlock more than he was willing to admit. He took a step back from the easel to consider the last few touches the work still needed. The face of James Moriarty stared back at him and yet again he was struck by the vast emptiness in the eyes. Or perhaps more than emptiness. Sherlock thought it might well be madness he was seeing in the other man’s face and, just briefly, wished that he had taken Mycroft’s warnings more seriously. 

Viciously, he shook off the mood.

Brilliant Moriarty might be. But so was he. Since it was entirely his fault that the madman was in their universe at all, if trouble came, he would handle it.

After a moment, Sherlock returned to preparing the palette.

It was less than five minutes before he heard the downstairs door open, followed by footsteps ascending. “Good morning, my dear Holmes,” Moriarty sang out as he came into the studio.

“Remove your coat and hat and sit in the chair,” Sherlock said crisply. “The portrait is nearly finished, so this will be our final session.”

As always, Moriarty seemed to view him with amusement, as if enjoying some private joke. But he obeyed, removing his outer garments and taking his usual place on the chair. He watched as Sherlock chose a brush. “You do not actually believe that this is the end of our…affiliation?”

Sherlock ignored him and touched the brush to the Ivory Black.  
Thankfully, nearly twenty minutes passed before Moriarty felt compelled to speak again.  
“I have plans, Sherlock,” Moriarty said breezily, ignoring the fact that he was being ignored. “Magnificent and brilliant plans. Your odious brother may think that he rules the world, but you and I shall show him differently. Together we will be unstoppable.”

Sherlock gave a short, harsh laugh. “For a so-called genius, Moriarty, you can be awfully stupid, can’t you?” In the mirror, he could see the dark look that crossed Moriarty’s face.

“You believe that I will just walk away, Sherlock, abandon what I know we could accomplish together?”

Sherlock considered the cerulean blue, then dismissed the idea and went with the ultramarine instead. “I believe that what you do or fail to do is of no interest to me at all.” He stepped to the easel again, glanced at Moriarty, and touched the brush lightly to the canvas.

Surprisingly, Moriarty laughed. It was a singularly unpleasant sound. “Let me tell you a story, Sherlock. When I was but a lad, seven years of age, if memory serves, my Nanny went to Mama and Papa to tell them that I was a very naughty little boy. She alleged that I was greedy and took whatever I wanted from other children in the park.”

Sherlock sighed, hoping to signify his boredom.

“Mama replied that the other children were undoubtedly selfish for not sharing. Papa just laughed and said that I was showing promise. Nanny gave her notice the next day, saying that letting a child run amok in that way, bullying and taking whatever he wanted was almost criminal.” Moriarty paused. “I was offended by the use of the modifier.”

Sherlock stepped back from the canvas and stared directly at Moriarty. “Have you any idea how utterly boring I find you?” he asked in a flat tone.

From the expression that crossed Moriarty’s face, the words might well have accused him of something like copulating with farm animals. But before he could speak, the door to the living quarters opened and John walked in.

He was dressed in casual flannels and a soft blue shirt, with no tie or jacket. His feet were bare and Sherlock had to restrain himself from crossing the room and lifting a hand to smooth the bed-mussed hair. He paused when he saw Moriarty. “Oh, sorry.” It was the polite thing to say, but Sherlock didn’t think that John was really sorry at all. “I didn’t realise you were working.” Another untruth; he had known Moriarty was expected. “Just wanted to ask if you fancied some tea, as I’m about to put the kettle on.”

Moriarty sneered. “Well, you have domesticated your little pet nicely, haven’t you? Does he also draw your bath and mend your stockings?”

John’s smile was not one that Sherlock had ever seen before, sharp-edged and chilly, but he didn’t say anything.

Sherlock grinned at him, just because he could. “Tea would be lovely. I will be done here in two minutes and Mr. Moriarty will be on his way.” The tone could not have been more dismissive.

Deliberately leaving the door open, John went into the kitchen.

Sherlock added two more brush strokes to the painting. “This will take several days to dry sufficiently,” he said conversationally. “So you may collect it by the end of the week.”

Moriarty moved swiftly and silently to stand in front of Sherlock. “Do you think that your brother can save you?” he asked in a tight, low voice. 

Sherlock dropped the brush into the jar of turpentine. “I always try to think about my brother as little as possible.”

Moriarty leaned much too close. “I will burn the heart out of you, Sherlock Holmes, and when you are just an empty shell you will have nowhere to turn but to me.”

“It is widely known that I have no heart.”

“No one believes that anymore, my dear.”

Now Sherlock bent his head and spoke into Moriarty’s ear. “I am not afraid of you.”

“You should be.” Abruptly, Moriarty moved away and raised his voice. “You should both be afraid of me.”

Only then did Sherlock become aware that John was standing in the doorway, arms crossed across his chest and a frown on his face “Such drama so early in the day,” was all he said, mildly.

Both of the other two seemed to ignore him. “Since you brought my brother into the conversation,” Sherlock said, “you must realise that all I would have to do is tell him what I know about you. His file is already quite thick and it would not take much more to move him to action.”

“Perhaps you would like to lose both your lover and your brother,” Moriarty said. “That can be arranged.” Before Sherlock could respond to that, Moriarty swept up his coat and hat and vanished down the stairs.

“What the bloody fuck?” John said.

Sherlock forced himself to simply turn and finish cleaning up. “Don’t worry about it,” he said crisply.

“Sherlock.”

Finally he walked over to John and wrapped him into a tight embrace. “Don’t worry about it,” he repeated. “I will handle Moriarty.”

John did not relax in the embrace, but he leaned to press his lips against Sherlock’s neck. “We will handle him,” he said quietly. “Together.”

Sherlock sighed into John’s hair and did not argue the point. But he knew that it was all down to him and that whatever it took he would keep John safe.

And probably his brother, as well, if it came to that.

*

It was almost as if by simply thinking of his brother several days ago, Sherlock had somehow summoned him up. Which was ridiculous, of course, but when it came to Mycroft and his interfering ways, Sherlock allowed himself a measure of irrationality.

The situation was not helped by the fact that he was already disgruntled by the way his morning had gone. Unexpectedly, John had announced that he’d received a note from Mary, requesting that he come by the flat at his earliest convenience. John thought it was nothing, beyond a slight annoyance that would interfere with his work. Over tea and toast at breakfast. Sherlock managed to construct an entire scenario in his head. Mary realised what she had lost. She wanted him back. The woman would throw herself at John, wrapping her arms around him, and probably crying. Yes, he decided, tears would be involved. Maybe she would try to seduce him.

Sherlock was so lost in the vision unfolding in his mind, playing like a cinematic drama,that he did not know that John had left his chair and approached, until two arms wrapped around him from behind. Quick kisses were pressed in a damp line on the back of his neck. “Idiot,” was all John said fondly, before going to dress for the day.

Sherlock was somewhat reassured, although still irritable.

A short time after John had departed, Sherlock also left the studio, en route to Sennelier’s, the only art shop in Paris that he patronized. Henri had promised to mix him a very particular shade of blue and he was eager to see the final product.

But when he stepped from the building it was to find a sleek black Rolls waiting at the kerb.

He sighed and thought about just ignoring it, but experience had long ago established that his brother would not be ignored, so instead, Sherlock went on the offensive. He yanked the rear door open and slid in. Ignoring Mycroft who was sitting there, he leaned towards the driver instead. “Sennelier’s, if you please,” he said sharply. Then he glared at his brother. “I assume your driver is competent?”

Mycroft didn’t even bother to answer as the automobile pulled smoothly into traffic. Instead, he smiled insincerely. “I hope all is well with you and your…Mr. Watson,” he murmured.

“That is not a subject up for discussion,” Sherlock said, watching the traffic they were moving through.

“Fine. It is not the subject I am here to discuss anyway.”

“Let me guess. You want to bore me about Moriarty again.”

“Oh, you are a clever boy.”

“His portrait is finished. I sincerely wish that he would collect it. Both of us are tired of looking at it.”

“Moriarty is planning something,” Mycroft said flatly.

“Well, of course he is,” Sherlock replied irritably. “That is what he does.”

“And you are not worried?”

Of course I am, Sherlock almost said. I am worried and it is a very new sensation for me and one I am finding that I do not like very much. It was better when I was alone, because being alone protected me from this cold, hard stone of worry that sits in my gut.

He said none of that. Instead, he shrugged in his long-practised manner. “I have everything under control.”

“Do you indeed?” Mycroft gazed at him. “I received your postcard. That lead me to think that the situation was somewhat fraught.”

Sherlock did not speak this time, afraid that he might say too much. Instead, he reached into his wallet and took out a folded sheet of paper. “I did this sketch,” he said, handing it over. “The man was shadowing us.”  
Mycroft took the paper and studied it briefly, before sliding it into his own pocket. “I will make enquiries.”  
“Thank you.”  
A short time later they pulled to a stop in front of the art supply shop. As Sherlock moved to leave, Mycroft stopped him with a hand resting lightly on his arm. “There is more in the air than you are aware of, brother mine. Take care.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment and then nodded, not even sure in his own mind what he meant by the gesture.

He stood on the pavement and watched as his brother merged into the traffic and then vanished around a corner. 

*

 

Sometimes John sat quietly and thought about how completely his life had changed. The most amazing part, he realised, was how easy it had all been. Sharing space with an egocentric and temperamental genius, especially one that occasionally behaved more like a spoiled man-child than an adult, should have been fraught with difficulties. John, honestly, had expected difficulties.

But it was all going so easily. Whether they were arguing over whether or not regular meals were a requirement for continued life, sharing a bath and lazy murmured conversations as night crept over Paris, or working separately whilst still together in the studio, everything was going along better than John had ever imagined his life would go.

He managed to put aside any worries about shadows in the night and for the most part did not allow even a passing thought of James Moriarty to enter his mind. Sherlock occasionally complained that the bastard had yet to collect the painting or make arrangements for its delivery. Occasionally John would mutter that he was tired of looking at the man’s face. Sherlock turned the easel so that it faced the wall.

Since he had no client at the moment, Sherlock was doing a series of small paintings based on the sketches he had done on their trip. It seemed to keep him content and so John was able to make significance progress on his novel.

It was all very good.

*

Sherlock emerged from the bedroom wearing a perfectly fitted grey suit, with a pink shirt, and a silver metallic waistcoat, all topped with a disgruntled expression. He had not really wanted to leave the studio and have dinner someplace nice, but had finally given in to John’s insistence.

It was John’s opinion that Sherlock preferred to stay within the walls of the studio and flat so that he could push John against any given surface and seduce him whenever the urge struck. Not that said seduction ever took too much effort. But occasionally he thought that it was nice to go out and eat something other than his own unspectacular cooking.

After giving Sherlock a careful look, John sighed and went to at least add a nicer tie to his quite ordinary suit. “Do you realise,” he said, as they started down the stairs, “how difficult it is to travel about in the company of a colourful peacock when one is only an ordinary, dusty pigeon?”

They stepped out into a pleasant Paris evening and walked side by side towards the bistro John had suggested.

Sherlock laughed softly. “A dusty pigeon? I think not. My knowledge of aviary species is limited, but I would liken you more to…something deceptively ordinary, but that when viewed in the sunlight is golden and rather magnificent.” He seemed uncharacteristically stymied. “Is there such a bird?”

“Only in your fevered imagination,” John said fondly. “But I am happy to reside there.”

Sherlock threw him a wry, almost self-mocking grin and quickened his pace.

John smiled as well and hurried to catch up.

 

The bistro exterior was shabby and gentile in a perfectly French way, but once they were inside it was much different place. The interior was all candlelight and gleaming silver perfectly arranged on pristine white linen. After Sherlock had a quiet word with the mustachioed maitre’d, they were immediately escorted to a corner table. “The world just falls at your feet, doesn’t it?” John said drily.

“I have managed to arrange the world very much to my liking,” Sherlock replied primly, already studying the wine list. “Do you object?”

“Well, since I am also a beneficiary of your arrangements with the universe, I can hardly complain.”

The wine was ordered and they were both looking over the specials written on a chalkboard when a familiar voice interrupted. “Well, well, Sherlock Holmes has emerged from his lair to dine with the rest of us,” Irene said. “What a notable occasion.”

“Contrary to popular opinion,” Sherlock murmured, not shifting his eyes from the chalkboard, “I do occasionally require sustenance.”

John was on his feet. “Hello, Irene,” he said. “Sally.” Although he would have very much preferred to spend the evening with just Sherlock, politeness required him to issue an invitation to join them. Sally did not look pleased [nor did Sherlock] but the two women sat anyway.

Once everyone had a glass in hand, Irene pulled a gold and ruby cigarette case from her black sateen handbag. She took her time with the Gauloise, first inserting it into an ebony holder and then leaning towards Sherlock, who gave an irritated huff, but flicked his lighter for her. She inhaled and then exhaled with an elegant moue and fixed Sherlock with her usual mocking, yet fond, gaze. “Never thought the day would come when Sherlock Holmes would be positively radiating contentment,” she said.

Sherlock scowled at her. “How mundane.”

John was amused. “Someone accusing you of being happy is not really a reason to be aggravated,” he pointed out.

Sally snorted. “Holmes believes that showing any human emotion at all is a weakness,” she said. “You of all people ought to know that by now.” 

Her scathing tone was at odds with the previous light-hearted mood around the table, at least in John’s opinion, and he began to think that he did not really care for Miss Donovan. He glared at her.

“Oh, hush, Sally,” Irene said. “You should be weary of criticising Sherlock’s character by now. At any rate, it has become tedious to the rest of us.”

Sally tightened her lips and said nothing more.

There was a brief silence around the table as they simply drank their wine. Not surprisingly, it was Irene who broke the quiet spell. “James Moriarty speaks of nothing but you these days,” was what she said.

“You know Moriarty?” Sherlock asked and then he dismissed his own question with an impatient gesture. “Oh, of course you do. Is there anyone in Paris that you don’t know? And in any event, he would have made it a point to be introduced to someone who knows me.”

“An ego the size of Hyde Park,” Sally said sotto voiced.

“One of the most charming snakes I have ever met,” Irene said. “Although Sally talks with him much more than I do. They are quite simpatico.”

“Ha,” John said, not caring if he was being a bit petty. He might have said more, but then he felt Sherlock take his hand under the table and give a squeeze.

“If you take my advice,” Sherlock said to both women, “you’ll stay as far away from him as you can.”

Irene laughed softly. “Oh, I can handle him. He does have some clever ideas and I find him amusing. Although I will confess that his obsession with you does become a bit tedious.”

“You have no idea,” Sherlock told her.

John had ceased to enjoy this conversation, especially after having such hopes for the evening. “You enjoy his company?” he asked Sally.

“I find him interesting. He appreciates my insights.”

“Into Sherlock, you mean?” John was aware that his voice had gotten louder.

Luckily, the door of the bistro opened and two couples swirled in amidst a burst of chatter and laughter. “Ahh, the rest of our party has arrived,” Sally announced. With no more farewell than that, she stood and walked over to join the group.

Irene stood more slowly. “Sherlock,” she said quietly, “about Moriarty…”

Sherlock just gave another dismissive wave. “All under control,” he said lazily.

“I hope so,” she replied, looking not at him, but at John. Then she nodded and left them.

The waiter arrived to take their order and Sherlock did not release his hold on John’s hand.

* 

 

The dinner and the wine had left John feeling contented and the perfect Parisian night seemed to have been created especially for them, so a long walk was definitely in order. They chose a quiet, tree-lined side street and Sherlock took John’s hand in his as they strolled under s moon-lit sky.

John laughed softly. 

“What?” Sherlock said.

“Who would believe that Sherlock Holmes is such a romantic?”

“If you share that information,” Sherlock whispered into John’s ear, “I will have to murder you slowly.”

John shook his head. “Oh, I have no intention of sharing any part of you with anyone else. Apparently I am much more possessive than I ever knew.”

Sherlock’s grip on his hand tightened.

After a very long walk, they found themselves on the Pont des Arts, looking down at the water and sharing an occasional kiss. “Once upon a time, “ Sherlock said, “I would stand on this bridge or another bridge and I would think about letting myself fall into the water.”

John said nothing, was not sure he could have said anything past the lump in his throat.

“But then I would remember a pair of brown eyes looking at me and even if it was only a dream, I could not jump. So you saved me before you knew me.”

John tangled his hand into unruly curls and tugged Sherlock into a kiss. “As I have said before, you were the angel that watched over me.”

After a moment, they both sighed and pulled apart, turning to look at the water again.

Sherlock spoke first. “I miss London. What would you think about going back?”

As soon as he heard those words, John realised that he was missing London as well. Only one thing made him hesitate. “We would not have the same freedom there,” he said quietly. “Our relationship would have to be more…discreet.”

“I know,” Sherlock admitted. “But we would be together and that is all that really matters.”

John nodded. “And we would have to find a place.”

 

Sherlock grinned. “One of our former housekeepers married well, except for the minor detail of her husband being a serial killer. When he was hung, she inherited a lovely property in central London, with a flat to let. It would be perfect.”

“Would she--?” John did not finish his question.

“Mrs. Hudson adores me and she will adore you, especially because you make me happy.”

John leant into Sherlock, who immediately wrapped one arm around him. “Let’s go to London, then,” he said.

Sherlock nodded. “London. Home.”

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Twenty-eight: An Anguish To Pay


	28. An Anguish To Pay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody knew something was going to happen and now it has.

For each ecstatic instant,  
we must an anguish pay.

-Emily Dickinson

 

The next week was an exceedingly busy one, as they made plans for the move to London. Sherlock had one commission to complete, the portrait of a minor government official [who was also in the pay of the Germans] and John was focused on finishing the first draft of his novel before a final Paris meeting with Michael. There had been one more visit to Mary’s, but Sherlock accepted that the fact she had already announced that she was now living with an American photographer named Edward meant that she really was finished with John. And soon they would be living in a different country, so it didn’t matter anyway.

Add to all of that the packing, booking of passage, arranging financial details and for the shipping of Sherlock’s automobile once they had departed, and most nights they simply tumbled into bed, exchanged a few sleepy kisses, and lost consciousness, wrapped together more like two exhausted children than lovers.

 

Sherlock, as usual, awoke first on what promised to be a warm, bright day, given the light that leaked in through the haphazardly drawn curtains. He always appreciated these quiet times in bed with John, as they gave him an opportunity to add even more details to his ridiculously extensive collection. Facts about John Hamish Watson were already over-flowing the sun-drenched sitting room where they were now stored, edging slowly but surely out onto the adjoining balcony.

Sherlock had a feeling that he would never stop adding more details to the portrait of John he was creating in his mind. Surprisingly, that pleased him.

This morning, for example, he was rather taken with the scar on John’s shoulder. Not that he hadn’t made a thorough study of the scar before, of course, but there was always something new to be learned. He ran two fingertips along the jagged line very lightly, feeling an emotion that was a strange blend of grief for what John had suffered and gratitude that the injury had delivered him to the hospital tent that day so long ago. Sherlock did not like to think about what his life would be like if John had not come into it. If he even still had a life.

He leant closer and touched his lips to the scar in both comfort and homage.

“Morning, love,” John murmured. First thing of a morning, still in bed, was one of the rare times such pet names were uttered between the two of them.

“Good morning, my dear,” Sherlock returned in his occasional courtly manner. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“S’fine…” John rolled over to face him, pulling Sherlock to lay against his chest. “I feel as though I’ve hardly spoken to you for too long a time.”

“I know. But only two more days and we shall be on our way home.”

John’s lips turned up into a small smile. “Home. That has a lovely sound to it. Have you heard back from your Mrs. Hudson yet?”

“Yes. I had a letter. She is beyond delighted that we are moving into the flat, cannot wait to make your acquaintance, and warns me that despite her past employment with my family, she will most definitely not be our housekeeper.”

John laughed.

“And then in the next line she asks after your favorite biscuits so that she might have some freshly baked ones awaiting your arrival.”

They looked at one another for a long moment and then John lowered his head and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. A small sigh escaped Sherlock before his tongue invaded John’s mouth, slavishly worshiping the warmth, the wet, even the slightly stale taste of sleep that lingered. The kisses went on and on until finally neither of them could any longer ignore the urgent pressings of other parts of their anatomy.

“How do you want me?” John breathed into Sherlock’s ear.

Oh, that was the question. Sherlock wanted to be taken and he wanted to take. He wanted to lick and taste. He wanted to be totally consumed by John and to consume him in turn. He wanted.

After a long minute, Sherlock pulled away from the embrace and turned himself in the bed so that they were head to feet, side by side. He heard John’s quick inhalation of air and then, as one, they each took an eager cock into a waiting mouth.

Sherlock loved, adored, the taste and feel of having John in his mouth, of sucking and licking and swallowing. The room was silent save for the wet sound of their joint ministrations. After several days without any real contact, they were both on edge and more than ready, so the whole process did not take very long. Sherlock swallowed and swallowed and thought that he could have taken even more if John had offered it. He would always take as much of everything---desire, sex, affection--- as John wanted to give, even if he always felt that his own offerings in return were lacking and not enough to convey all he felt.

There were several minutes of nothing but heavy breathing, before Sherlock crawled back up the mattress and kissed John again, more slowly this time, more tenderly. John smooth sweat-damp curls away and smiled. “I love you,” he said.

Sherlock nodded. “I know,” he said. “Love is not a big enough word for me to describe how I feel about you.”

John wrapped him in another embrace and they spent far too much time just lying there.

 

*

Sherlock was putting some finishing touches on the portrait of the government official [traitor? spy?] when John came into the studio, one hand straightening his tie while the other clutched a large envelope. “Well, I best be off,” he said. “It will be a relief to hand these pages to Michael. I am sure he had despaired that it would ever be finished.”

“It’s a very good book,” Sherlock said absently, most of his attention still focused on the close-set eyes of the Frenchman on the canvas.

John paused in the process of putting on his suit jacket. “You’ve read it?”

“Ahh.” Sherlock finally looked at him, but only raised a brow.

“Oh, well, of course you have.” John came over and placed a kiss of Sherlock’s cheek. Then, sounding almost shy, he asked, “You really think it’s good?”

“I just said as much, John.” Sherlock realised that the painting was done and stepped away from the easel. “The boy, Marcus, is you, of course.”

“Yes. After a fashion.”

Sherlock raised a hand and let his fingers trail through John’s hair, enjoying the feel of the soft strands. Then he smoothed the tufts down again. “I feel as if I know you even better, having read that story.”

John smiled at him. “No one has ever known me as you do. No one else ever will.” There was a pause before John cleared his throat and moved away. “Why don’t we have a celebratory lunch when I return?” he suggested. “At someplace special.”

“It can also serve as our farewell to Paris,” Sherlock pointed out. “Shall I just meet you at Maxim’s? Will one be convenient?”

“One will be perfect.” John grinned at him and then left, trotting down the stairs and whistling a cheerful tune.

Sherlock smiled, primarily out of amusement at his own ridiculous impulse to whistle as well.

Absurd.

*

Maxim’s was filled with the quiet hum of conversation and the discreet clatter of silverware against china. Sherlock had ordered a bottle of very good Chablis and had very much enjoyed the flinty taste of the first glass.

But the second glass did not tingle on his tongue quite as much. His lack of enjoyment had nothing at all to do with the wine itself, but was down to the fact that it was nearly two and John had not arrived yet.

John was prompt. Always. If for some reason he had been delayed, Sherlock knew that he would have sent a note or rung Maxim’s to let him know.

Sherlock even wondered if perhaps the fault were his---had he mistaken the time or the meeting place? But he dismissed that possibility impatiently and took another swallow of the suddenly unsatisfactory wine.

Perhaps the meeting with Stamford had gone badly and John had simply gone home to sulk. Sometimes his lover did take a mood and if Stamford had criticized the book, or what bit of it he had looked at, John might have…but, no, that made no sense. The book was excellent and Sherlock was pleased that he was able to acknowledge that truth. Pleased also that he completely accepted the foolishness of the jealousy he had felt while reading the words that told the tale of John’s relationship with someone else. Even if it had all been a long time ago and never anything more than a boyhood crush, all of which he accepted as fact, there had been a slow tendril of jealousy moving through him as he read.

Sherlock glanced at his watch again. Getting on for 2:30 now.

Maybe John had become ill and gone home, intending to let Sherlock know, but the illness had overcome him and he was unable to ring or send a note.

Sherlock swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat. The only logical choice for him seemed to be to just go home and see if John were there, either sulking or vomiting. He paid for the wine and, impatient, waved down a taxi for the trip to the flat. During the ride, he managed to convince himself that surely John would be there waiting for him when he arrived. Nothing else made sense. 

Even as the taxi pulled to a stop and he threw the fare at the driver, Sherlock could see the envelope stuck on the door. Sadly, the baker’s wife was confined to bed after giving birth to their third child or she would surely have been able to tell him who had visited.

It was slightly surprising to see John’s name, rather than his own, written on the envelope, but Sherlock had no hesitation in opening it immediately. The message inside was brief, but nevertheless it hit him like a dagger to the heart.

John,  
I am concerned that you did not make our meeting this morning,  
because it is unlike you to miss an appointment without sending  
word. Please let me know that you are all right and when we might  
meet.

It was signed with a scrawled Stamford.

So there was no doubt now. Something had happened to John.

Sherlock was more frightened than he had ever been and, at the same time, he felt a certain sense of resignation. As if he had always known that one day John would disappear.

He had no idea how long he simply stood there on the pavement, holding the damned note in his hand. The sound of an automobile horn finally yanked him back to reality. He unlocked the door and started up the stairs, each step seeming to take him closer to some kind of unspecified and dreadful doom.

As soon as Sherlock stepped into the studio he realised that the window at the rear of the room was open. It lead to an improvised fire escape the landlord had installed due to the many flammable liquids Sherlock kept on hand. A moment later, he saw the bundle that had been left in the center of the table.

He moved slowly towards the table, one hand already out-stretched to touch the blood-splattered pages of John’s manuscript. Two fingers touched the bundle and then he looked at the blood on his skin.

Sherlock barely made it to the sink before his guts spasmed and rejected the wine he’d enjoyed and the tea he’d had for breakfast. 

It took only a few moments for Sherlock to straighten from his huddle over the tin sink. He rinsed his mouth and face with the lukewarm water while trying to decided what to do next. His mind was still a swirling muddle that seemed to belong to someone else entirely.

But, in the end, only one thought came through the chaos, clearly and sharply, and if it were the last thing he would have predicted it also immediately emerged as the only idea that made sense.

He carefully placed the bloodied pages into his leather satchel and left the studio.

 

Few people were aware of the existence of the Westminster Club, a tiny bit of the Empire secreted behind the unexceptional doors of an old stone building near the Arc de ’Triomphe. Sherlock showed the card that he had never used before and was relieved to be admitted immediately. It hadn’t occurred until that moment that his brother might not even be in Paris. The frock-coated attendant led him through a carpeted corridor to a small room in the rear of the building.

Mycroft was there, deep in conversation with two other men.

Sherlock had assumed that his exterior would not reveal the roiling panic still strumming through his entire body, but when Mycroft looked up and saw him standing there his eyes widened just a little. Immediately, he said a few quiet words and the other two men slipped silently from the room, closing the door as they went.

“What’s happened to Watson?” Mycroft asked as soon as they were alone.

Sherlock dropped into one of the empty chairs and didn’t say anything for a moment.

Mycroft made an impatient gesture. “Get yourself under control, Sherlock,” he said sharply.

“How did you know--?”

“What else would put you in such a state? This is exactly why I have always warned you away from forming close personal attachments.”

Sherlock only shook his head slightly. Then he opened the satchel and slid the manuscript out onto the small table in front of Mycroft’s chair. “John’s novel,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “He is gone and this was left in the studio.”

Mycroft, at least, did not chastise him for stating the obvious. “You know who this is, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” Sherlock said savagely. “And if you say ‘I told you so’, Mycroft, I might kill you where you sit.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Mycroft replied in a mild voice.

Abruptly, Sherlock jumped from the chair and began to pace the small room, both hands dragging through his hair. “This is my fault,” he said. “I played a stupid game with Moriarty and now John is…John is gone.” That was as far as he could go. Just gone.

Mycroft shifted just slightly in his chair, which meant that he was uncomfortable with what he was going to say. “While you are far from blameless, brother, I must accept some of the responsibility as well.”

Sherlock stopped and stared at him. “What have you done?” If Mycroft was willing to express even a small amount of guilt, then it was obvious he had done something quite dreadful.

“My operatives may have been passing along insignificant bits of information to Moriarty. It was in an effort to maximize our knowledge of his international connections. ” Even as Mycroft spoke they both knew it was a flimsy rationale for what he had done.

Sherlock was reminded of why he should never really trust his brother. Even---or maybe especially---when he needed the bastard. Like now. “Information about me? About John?”

Mycroft would not meet his eyes.

“Goddamn you, Mycroft. I will kill you.”

It took a moment before Mycroft managed to wrap himself again in his usual icy mantel. “Perhaps you might want to defer that until we have recovered your…Watson.”

“My lover,” Sherlock said in a low, tight voice. “John is my lover.” Then he seemed to collapse into himself. “I have to get him back, Mycroft,” he whispered. His voice was soft, his face anguished, but his eyes gleamed with steely determination. “Whatever it takes.”

*

Something was very wrong.

That was the first thought in John’s mind and although it was a nebulous, unhelpful sort of thought, he did not doubt its truthfulness. Something was most definitely wrong.

Actually, several things were wrong.

A moment’s further consideration convinced him that every bloody thing in the world was fucking wrong.

He was briefly bemused by how easily he seemed to slip back into soldier mode, refusing to panic even as he mentally tallied the various complications he was facing.

His legs were bound at the ankles.

His arms were bound behind his back, which was doing his shoulder no good at all, if anybody cared.

A steady drumbeat reverberated in his skull.

He tasted blood.

All of those things he made careful note of without even opening his eyes.

Then one question floated through his mind: What the hell had happened to him?

“Sooner or later you will have to open your eyes Mr. Watson,” an unfamiliar voice said. Unfamiliar, yes, but recognizable, an accent he had heard in the trenches.

John slowly raised his eyelids, blinked several times, and finally managed to focus on the heavily built blond man in khaki trousers and jacket. It took a moment or two for him to speak, trying to work up enough saliva in his mouth. It still tasted of blood. “You are…a very long way from Rhodesia.”

The man gave a short laugh. “You must be smarter than I was lead to believe.”

John spit some blood. “You have the advantage on me, sir.”

“Ah, the English gentleman. Unruffled. Well, as there is no harm to it, I will tell you that my name is Moran. Sebastian Moran.”

“Fine. Now, Mr. Moran, perhaps you can tell me why I am here?”

“Not my job, sadly. You’ll have to wait for the boss to turn up. I’m just the nanny until he arrives.”

John didn’t really intend to close his eyes again, but abruptly the effort to keep them open became too much. The room was silent for a time, save for the sound of Moran apparently sharpening a knife blade. Finally, John opened his eyes again. “Moriarty, of course,” he said bitterly.

How could they not have known that the man would do something just like this? Or perhaps Sherlock had known; he knew everything after all. John really wanted to be angry at the arrogant bastard, for thinking he really could control the universe. Securing a table at a chic café was one thing; controlling a criminal madman quite another. So, yes, he wanted to be angry that he had ended up in this…situation, but then he thought about how Sherlock would be feeling now. Sherlock loved him and needed him and the realisation that he had lost John would shatter him.

As ridiculous as it was, in that moment, John felt worse for Sherlock than he did for himself.

At least until the door of the room opened. “Well, well, Mr. Watson, how kind of you to join us. I have been wanting to chat for ever so long.” James Moriarty stood in front of him, perfectly tailored and smug as ever. “We are going to have such fun.” Then he giggled.

John sighed and let his eyes fall closed again.

*

Sherlock had stopped raging, stopped berating Mycroft and everyone else who came into the room, stopped his manic pacing.

He knew that Mycroft was quite probably missing all of the earlier drama, because now Sherlock was doing nothing at all. Nearly an hour ago, he had dropped onto the leather divan, leant his head back against the cushion, and stared at the ceiling. He had neither moved nor spoken since then.  
“Sherlock,” Mycroft said quietly. That was all he said, but clearly he was remembering Sherlock’s reaction to their father’s death years earlier. The silence he’d fallen into then lasted four days. And he hadn’t even liked his father very much, with good reason. Even worse had been Sherlock’s reaction to the death of the family dog. Mummy had consulted the doctor over his silence that went on for a fortnight. Sherlock knew very well that Mycroft was remembering all of that history.

“Tell me something, Mycroft,” he finally said, ignoring his brother’s sigh of relief that he was speaking. “Tell me of what use you and all your minions are if you cannot help me now? For my whole life I have put up with you and your intrusions because on some deep level I always thought you would protect me if necessary. Protect what mattered to me.”

“I have done that. To the best of my ability.”

Sherlock finally leaned forward and stared at Mycroft. “And I know this is mostly my own fault; I really do know that. But you’re my brother. Still, I guess that, in reality, I have always been just a pawn in your game.”

“Not true.” Mycroft seemed to let his own anger take over for a moment. “I warned you about him. I knew what I was doing, yes, but I did warn you.”

Sherlock nodded wearily. “I am going home,” he said hollowly. 

“And do what?”

“Wait, of course. Moriarty will contact me.”

“And then you will contact me, correct?”

The smile Sherlock gave him was small and icy. “Yes, of course.” He picked up his coat and left.

He simply ignored the two men who climbed into the back of the automobile with him. It was meant to be a sign that Mycroft was still in charge. As if anyone doubted that. He left the men in the car and ran up the stairs, needing to be alone.

Once inside the studio, he poured himself a glass of brandy and sat down to wait.

 

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Twenty-nine: Show Me A Hero


	29. Show Me A Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is a prisoner and Sherlock might be losing his mind.

Show me a hero and I’ll  
write you a tragedy.

-F.Scott Fitzgerald

 

//It hurts too much.

Please, just let me die.

Make them all shut up. All those others hurting and bleeding and dying. If I could lift my arms, I would cover my ears so I wouldn’t have to hear them. I would cover my nose so that I could stop smelling the death around me.

It hurts so much.//

 

John jerked himself out of the nightmare, realising almost immediately that he was not in the hospital tent anymore. The war was long over and the green-eyed angel he’d seen that day was now his own.

He almost smiled.

“Wish we’d spoken then,” he mumbled. “All those years wasted…”

Someone laughed, an unpleasant sound.

John ignored it. “I missed you all that time,” he said. “And when I saw you again, it was like all my dreams had come true.”

“Ugh,” the same unpleasant voice said. “Not sure how much more of this I can listen to. Sentiment. How does Holmes bear it?”

“Fate. I think it was fate. Or just bloody good luck. So many people in the world and we managed to find one another twice? We don’t believe in miracles, but…”

“Oh, good god, please shut up. My ears are starting to bleed.”

“Sherlock?”

Abruptly, a hand gripped his hair painfully, jerking his head backwards. “Holmes is not here. He’s not yours anymore. Never was, really. With him at my side, I will be unbeatable. He deserves more than you can ever offer. He deserves me. You only degrade him, turn him into something ordinary.”

There was just a flicker of time, when John was fully there, completely in the moment, staring at Moriarty. Without even thinking about it, he spit in the man’s face.

“Bastard,” Moriarty said.

Then a fist, not Moriarty’s, connected with John’s temple, and he fell back into the blackness.

*

They had never really talked about it. Not since Sherlock was sixteen, at any rate. That long-ago discussion had taken place over tea [Twining’s Earl Grey] and some fancy pink frosted biscuits from a tiny French patisserie in Knightsbridge.

Very civilised.

Mummy. Mycroft. Sherlock himself, albeit reluctantly.

And, of course, the famous doctor from Vienna.

Sherlock was no stranger to doctors, world famous or otherwise, and so he knew just how to arrange his lanky limbs on the over-stuffed chair in Mummy’s parlour. Just how to smooth his face so that the only emotion visible to even the most discerning eye [well, save Mummy. And Mycroft, damn him.] would be extreme boredom.

He sipped his tea and reduced a biscuit to a pile of pink crumbs as the conversation moved from his tendency to develop obsessions over the most peculiar things to his well-known inability to interact socially with his peers. Even Mycroft sneered a bit at that.

“Of course, his intelligence is quite remarkable,” the doctor said in a tone intended to reassure.

Sherlock forgot himself for a moment and raised a brow.

The doctor didn’t notice, because he was looking at Mummy. “We used a very new test, Mrs. Holmes, one developed in Switzerland. Your son exceeded all expectations.”

“Oh, indeed I did,” Sherlock murmured idly, setting his teacup down carefully. “I was able to grasp an object when someone touched my arm. I could repeat perfectly a sentence of fifteen words.”

The doctor sighed. 

Sherlock smiled. “Actually, I repeated the sentence perfectly in four languages.”

“He did, yes.”

“Show-off,” Mycroft muttered.

“That’s what I do.” Sherlock looked at Mummy. “Oh, and let’s not forget that I could cut paper.”

The room was quiet for a moment.

Finally the doctor shuffled some papers. “And his artistic abilities are extraordinary.”

“Hardly surprising,” Sherlock said tartly. “I am an extraordinary artist.”

“However,” the doctor went on doggedly, “as is often the case, those with an artistic temperament also develop undesirable personality traits, which as you know, is my particular field of interest.”

Mummy finally gave in to the nerves that she had kept under admirable control. “But is my son…is he…?” She seemed unable to say the word.

Sherlock stood, smoothing the front of his grey wool waistcoat. “My mother wants to know if her younger son is insane,” he said helpfully.

Mycroft snorted.

“Oh, no, I would not say that at all,” the doctor hastened to say. He then talked on at some length, while Mummy nodded occasionally.

Sherlock walked over to the French doors and looked out into the garden, no longer interested in even pretending to care.

In an unprecedented show of brotherly solidarity, Mycroft joined him. They did not speak or even look at one another.

Less than two years later, Mycroft sent him to war.

*

Sherlock had never worried about losing his mind. Not when Mummy sent him to be tested. Not when he was surrounded by the madness of war. Not even when the cocaine held him in thrall. He simply accepted that the possibility was there and got on with things. 

And then there was John in his life and Sherlock knew with calm certainty that the only thing which would send him spiraling into the darkness was if there were no John anymore.

Mycroft’s two lackeys had delivered him back to the flat with orders to stay inside until Moriarty made contact. From the studio window, he watched them exit the car, but Sherlock knew that they would not go far. One would be at the front of the building and one at the rear, obviously. Mycroft did not trust him to make contact when the moment came.

Mycroft was not an idiot.

Alone, Sherlock wondered if this would be the day the monsters came out of the darkness and took him over. He already knew that when they came, he would welcome them with opened arms.

The flat was filled with John. A shirt left carelessly over a chair. The crock of double thick marmalade he favored was still on the tiny table in the kitchen. The smell of his soap lingered in the air.

Sherlock paced the length of the studio, one end to the other, over and over, feeling as if invisible insects were crawling over his entire body. The mantra in his mind was a constant thrum as he moved.

JOHNJOHNJOHNJOHNJOHNJOHNJOHNJOHNJOHN

Abruptly, he stopped in one corner of the room. With his hand, he turned the easel around and stared at the face of James Moriarty. Sherlock realised that he had never really hated anyone before. Not with this sort of hate, which was like a rush of scalding bile through his body.

There was nothing impulsive about his action, because Sherlock Holmes, even filled with burning hate and poised on the edge of the abyss, was a man of reason. A man of logic. So when he reached over and picked up the palette knife it was with full knowledge of what he was going to do next.

The first slice went from the upper left to the lower left of the canvas. The next started at the upper right and descended, making an X.

Then Sherlock lifted the canvas from the easel and slammed it against the edge of the metal worktable. Once. Twice. Three times. Stopping only when there was nothing left save shards of wood and strips of canvas littering the floor. His breaths came in harsh, rasping gasps as he kicked the rubble back into the corner.

There was only one person he hated nearly as much as he hated Moriarty and that was, of course, himself. Because a large part of the blame for this entire disaster was on him. 

Unable to bear the studio any longer, he went into the bedroom and sat on the bed, which had somehow never been tidied that day. They had made love in the early morning light, gently, tenderly, as befitted the mood of the new dawn. John had held him afterwards, murmuring soft words, foolish words of sentiment and when Sherlock now thought that it was all-too-possible that he would never hear such things again, his heart trembled.

He picked up John’s pillow and pressed it to his face.

Sherlock did not cry. He just breathed.

After several moments, he carefully replaced the pillow, smoothing the soft linen cover so that it would be ready to use again.

Unless he had to burn the whole place down to exorcise his memories.

As he stood to leave the bedroom, Sherlock caught sight of himself in the very old mirror that hung on the wall. He looked tired, paler than usual, and probably a little mad.

Mostly, however, the man in the glass looked so very lonely.

Sherlock raised his fist and smashed it against the fragile glass. It shattered and blood spurted from his hand. 

*

John was mostly conscious now, which was something of a mixed blessing. His body hurt, his head throbbed, his inner spirit was, if not quenched completely, definitely flickering more feebly than it usually did. 

He had finally figured out why the blond man---Moran, apparently---looked familiar. He was the sniper they had seen that night in the restaurant. His mind wandered away from this unpleasant reality and back to their trip. They had been so happy. Foolishly happy, he now realised. Who dined within the view of a sniper and dismissed it so casually?  
They had been so careless all along.  
But then he forgave them both, because they had been in love, newly in love, and happiness was what they deserved.

Moriarty kicked at the chair and that pulled him back to the present. “Come, come,” he said in a teasing voice. “If you are having such pleasant thoughts that a smile is lurking on your face, you should share. Mr. Moran and I would love to hear the little secrets of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.”

“Fuck off,” John said.

Both of the other men laughed.

“Well, Sebastian,” Moriarty said cheerfully, “this has been a pleasure, but you have an errand to run and a train to catch.”

“Yes,” Moran agreed. “When do you expect to join the rest of us in Berlin?”

Moriarty shrugged. “A day or two. Once the pesky matter of poor Watson here is resolved it should not take me long to bring Holmes around to my way of thinking.”

John, who had been only casually listening as he thought of other things, lifted his head. “Sherlock will never come around to your way of thinking,” he said in a raspy voice.

“You think not? Such a loyal little pet.” Moriarty picked up an envelope and handed it to the other man.

Moran slipped the envelope into his pocket, then grabbed a small valise and headed for the door. “Good luck,” he tossed over his shoulder as he exited.

“Luck,” Moriarty said scornfully to John. “Men like Holmes and I do not need luck. We have genius.” He rubbed his hands together. “Just to contemplate what we will accomplish together excites me.”

John thought about arguing, but decided instead to concentrate on loosening the rope binding his hands.

Thankfully, Moriarty didn’t notice, as he sat down and began to carefully sharpen the blade of a hunting knife.

*

Sherlock finished the glass of whisky and checked the silk handkerchief that was wrapped around his hand. The flow of blood had finally eased, but the sticky dampness of his shirt and trousers was annoying. He went into the bathroom, stripped off his soiled clothing, and washed quickly. Going back into the bedroom, he dressed again, this time in the aubergine shirt that he knew was John’s favorite. He pulled on black trousers and added a yellow and white striped waistcoat, because he knew that it would make John laugh and tease him again about being a peacock, before finishing by donning the suit jacket.

Then he went back into the studio and stood at the front window again. The sound of raised voices drifted up to him and when he looked down at the pavement he saw that Mycroft’s man was engaged in a rather heated discussion with the baker who had a small basket over one arm.

There was no real doubt about who was going to win the debate and so he was not surprised when he heard the very fat man coming heavily up the stairs. He opened the door, aware of the sentry listening at the bottom of the stairs. “Monsieur,” he said.

“I have brought your usual baguettes,” the baker said. “That putain tried to stop me, but I told him you must have your bread, just like every other day.”

He lied so easily and so well that just for a moment Sherlock believed that he did indeed have fresh bread delivered every day. “Thank you,” he said, taking the basket from him.

Monsieur Basquit gave him a long look and when Sherlock nodded sharply in return, he turned and went back down the stairs.

Sherlock closed the door again and set the basket on the table. He lifted out two baguettes, which he put aside. Underneath the checkered napkin there was an envelope with his name neatly written on the front.

At last.

There was no reason to be relieved; he knew that. But still he felt a certain peace edge into his chest. What would be the point of sending a note if John were already dead? Then he shoved that word away viciously. It was not to be contemplated.

Finally, he opened the envelope, carefully slipping out a single sheet of heavy linen paper.

//Holmes,  
I seem to have acquired something that belongs to you. Nothing  
of any value at all, but still, something in my nature compels me to  
give you the opportunity of recovering the trifle. Or at least of  
seeing it one more time before…well, before. People do get so  
sentimental about their pets. If this is something that interests  
you, please join us at the Chateau Chutes d’eau. Here is a map  
to help you on your way. Because I have such a soft heart, I asked  
your pet if he had anything to add to this note. His response was  
rather crude. How do you put up with him?

See you soon.//

The initials JM were a black slash across the paper and just beneath that was a simple map. Which was unnecessary, as Sherlock knew exactly where the chateau was located. He had painted it several times soon after arriving in Paris. He had even explored the interior, which would perhaps give him an advantage of which Moriarty was not aware.

Sherlock sat still for several moments, not wanting to rush off in some misguided sense of panic. He took several deep breaths and then went back into the bedroom. Stretching both arms upwards, he pulled on the old chain that deployed the stairs leading to the attic space.

Once safely in the rafters, Sherlock pulled the stairs back up. The dust made him sneeze twice and then he went to the small window that led to the rooftop. He crawled out, pressing against the tiles, and slowly pulled his body to the edge. Peering down, he could see Mycroft’s man pacing in the alleyway that ran behind the building. The man did not look upwards, even as Sherlock made a crouching jump to the nearby roof of the bakery. Again, he crawled and then jumped to the third roof. Only then did he feel comfortable standing and running. He made four more jumps, before climbing down the only slightly shaky pipe that ran down the side of a closed café.

Then he ran full out, not stopping until he was at the garage.

Within two more minutes he was driving away, heading for the chateau Chutes d’eau. Heading towards John.

*

On one level, John was finding it an interesting experience. He needed to blink rather often to keep the dripping blood from obscuring his view and staying conscious was a bit of a challenge, but still. He’d often said that everything in his life was ‘grist for the mill’, meaning that whatever happened to him could serve his work. Even as a boy, he remembered standing at his father’s funeral, analysing the reactions of everyone around him.

Now he was watching a man who appeared to be descending into increasing madness

Moriarty had been muttering to himself as he paced the room. He stopped suddenly and glared at John. “Maybe he won’t come after all. Is it possible I misjudged his attachment to you?” Then he chuckled. “Oh, is it possible that Sherlock Holmes has not really succumbed to the baser emotions?” He leaned down close to John’s ear. “Did you really think he cared?”

John tried to pull away.

Moriarty grabbed his head and held on tightly. “I told you a long time ago that he would never be yours. What a shame that you didn’t listen. You were too busy playing Cinderella to his Prince. What you forgot is that every fairytale needs a dreadful villain. And here I am.” Moriarty patted his cheek almost affectionately. Then he moved away again, humming under his breath.

John blinked away blood and watched Moriarty, allowing himself to forget about the fact that it seemed unlikely he would be able to write anything about this particular experience. Or about anything else, actually.

He was actually happy that Sherlock had not turned up. At least that meant he was safe.

And, typical of the idiot that he loved, no sooner had John had that thought than the door burst open and Sherlock Holmes strode in looking like a fucking knight at King Arthur’s court. A hero in an absurd striped waistcoat with hair that was such a windblown mess that it looked as if he had run across the rooftops of Paris in order to get here. And possibly he had.

John saw all of that in one slightly blood-blurred glance. Because he knew Sherlock so well, however, he saw beyond that image. He saw the anger. He also saw the fear.

Mostly, though, he saw the love, raw and terrible and beautiful, in Sherlock’s eyes and knew that if his life were going to end soon at least he would not die without knowing how much he was loved, adored in fact, by the most extraordinary man in the world.

Wanting at the very least to offer a little comfort, he blinked some more and managed a small smile.

Sherlock smiled back at him.

Moriarty gave a chortle. “As I said, people do grow so fond of their pets. I knew that I was not wrong about you, Holmes. You have succumbed to sloppy emotions. But fear not. I will break you of the habit.”

“You have what you want, Moriarty. I am here. So let John go. This has always been just between the two of us.”

“Yes. The two most brilliant minds of their generation. How could we not meet and join forces? The world will tremble before us.”

“You’re a madman,” John managed to force out from lips that felt thick and clumsy. “He will never join you.”

“Will he not?” Moriarty said softly. “You know so little about his true nature.”

“Let John go,” Sherlock said again.

“Well, I could send him on his way,” Moriarty drawled. “But what would he do then?”

Sherlock took one step towards John and then stopped. “He will go away and forget all of this. He will not be a danger to you.”

John snorted.

Sherlock’s tone became urgent. “He will go be safe and---”

“He can speak for himself,” John said hoarsely.

“Oh, this is boring me now,” Moriarty said impatiently. “Do you not understand yet, Watson? You don’t matter and you never did. Taking you was only meant to give him a reason to come. He always wanted to come, but he just needed a bit of a push. But now you have served your purpose.” Abruptly, Moriarty moved towards him, the hunting knife in his hand. 

The edge of the blade actually touched John’s neck before there was a shout of “No!” and a blur of movement seemed to fly across the room. Sherlock collided with Moriarty and for just an instant everything seemed to stop, frozen in time and place. Then momentum kicked in and the two bodies kept moving, the force of the collision driving them into and then through the window. Wood and glass exploded as Sherlock and Moriarty vanished into the darkness.

After a moment of paralysed horror, John seemed to find a surge of strength from somewhere, throwing himself and the chair over, landing with a thud on the floor. Pain slammed through his torso, but he ignored it. The rope around his hands had loosened enough so that he was able to free himself and grab the knife Moriarty had dropped when Sherlock crashed into him. John worked at the rope around his feet with the blade, still ignoring the pain as the sharp edge also cut into his flesh. Blood made everything slippery, and blackness threatened to drag him under again, but desperation kept him at it, until finally his feet were free as well.

He managed to scoot and crawl over to the remains of the window and then used both hands to pull himself up enough to be able to peer downwards.

Looking at the ground below, John saw two still bodies lying in the moonlight. Raising his gaze, he could just make out what looked to be automobile lights approaching from the distance.

“Sherlock,” he whispered and then, at last, the threatening darkness swept over him completely and he knew nothing more.

*

It was something of a surprise to realise that he was not dead.

Assuming that he was, in fact, still alive. Which meant making the assumption that the horrid pain he was feeling was simply the natural reaction of a human body to falling from a second story window and landing on the ground below rather than the punishment of eternal damnation.

He tried to ignore the pain and think back. The last thing he could remember was the sound of a crash and then the sensation of falling much too quickly through the darkness.

At that moment, the possibility that he had actually landed in hell was increased several fold by the sight of his brother’s face hovering above him. “Don’t move,” Mycroft said immediately.

Deciding that his jaw could be excluded from that order, Sherlock tested his ability to speak and there was only one thing he needed to say. “John…?”

“Will be taken care of. Just stay still. An ambulance is nearly here.”

“Moriarty?”

At that, Mycroft glanced towards another heap on the ground. “Mr. Moriarty landed on the stone path,” he said, “whilst you impacted on the softer turf. Fortunate for you, but Moriarty is barely clinging to life.” With that, Mycroft walked a few steps away. He merely stared down for a long moment, until, with a swift surety that belied his deskbound years, he raised one foot, pressing his shoe against the dying man’s windpipe. There was a horrible gurgling rattle. Then there was silence. Mycroft stepped back to where Sherlock lay watching. “Sadly, he lost his grip.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to demand that John be brought to him, but speaking again was suddenly beyond him. He closed his eyes.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Thirty: We Were So Wholly One


	30. We Were So Wholly One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath of the Fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little late today, but for a good reason. Had a long and chatty lunch with my old friends Gareth and Linda. Two connections, really. Firstly, we ate at the Sherlock Holmes Pub. And also, Gareth, an actor, played the villain in Jeremy Brett's version of The Naval Treaty.

We were so wholly one  
I had not thought that we  
could die apart.  
-Edna St. Vincent Millay

The world was a place of white and over-bright lights and constant noise.

He remembered this world, of course, and sometimes his drugged mind wondered if everything he could remember of his recent life had been nothing more than an opiate-fueled dream. Maybe it was still 1916 and he was in the field hospital on a battlefield in France. But he shuddered away from that thought, because it would mean Sherlock did not exist, had never existed, and if that were true, John decided that he would never open his eyes. Even if all he could see in the darkness was the sight of Sherlock lying so still on the ground below.

The doctors here had explained about the ribs that had been broken from repeated hits with the iron pipe wielded by Moran. The infection that had set in. The cuts and the lump on the back of his head. They told him he was lucky.

John didn’t feel lucky at all.

No one would tell him anything about Sherlock. They didn’t even seem to have any idea what he was talking about and he wondered if perhaps they thought he was in the midst of a delusion. Maybe he was. Whenever he started yelling and cursing, they only sedated him again.

The next time he awoke, Mycroft Holmes was in the room, not sitting on the empty visitor’s chair, but standing at the foot of the bed, brolly tip resting on the tiled floor. He was watching John.

John struggled to wake up. “Thank god,” he said finally. “No one will tell me anything. Where is Sherlock?”

There was a long hesitation and then Mycroft took a breath. “I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, John, but his injuries were too severe. Sherlock passed away.”

The bottom of the world seemed to drop away and John had absolutely nothing onto which he could hold. He gasped for air but it was too thin to keep his lungs working. “No,” he said. “Please, no.”

Mycroft stepped closer. “His last words were of you,” he said, not quite meeting John’s eyes.

Was that supposed to be some kind of comfort? “You should have done something,” John managed to say. “He was your brother. You should have saved him.”

Mycroft nodded. “I tried. But he had a weakness that Moriarty exploited.”

And John knew just what the man was not quite putting into words. “Me,” he said. “I was his weakness.”

Neither of them said anything more and after a few moments, Mycroft left the room. John could hear the fading tap-tap of the brolly as he went.

*

Two days later, Mary came to see him. Apparently some version of reality had made it into the newspapers. She sat in the chair, awkwardly holding a bag of grapes. “John, my good god, what happened?”

“Sherlock…is dead,” he said, the words tasting like ash on his tongue.

“I know that. It’s been all over the newspapers. The art colony of Paris is losing its collective mind. What on earth had he gotten you into?”

John wanted to tell her everything that Sherlock had done for him; everything Sherlock had given him. “He got me into life,” was all he said.

“You almost died,” Mary pointed out.

“I wish I had,” John snapped, meaning it.

She did not linger long, leaving the grapes for him, and promising to keep in touch. Then she rather fled and John knew that he would not see her again. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

Others came after Mary, but none of those visits lasted very long either. Michael was in and out, after some uneasy talk about the book, obviously hoping to get John to care. Irene and Sally turned up. Irene spoke softly about Sherlock, saying lovely things. Sally kept quiet, which was good, because John was not sure he wanted to hear her voice.

He was glad when people stopped coming and he could be alone with his thoughts. At night, when the lights were dimmed and the noises of the ward muted, John could close his eyes and think about Sherlock.

*

Madame Rousseau bustled in and out of the room frequently, bringing him endless cups of tea or coffee along with tidbits from the kitchen that she hoped would tempt him to eat. He sent it all back. At least the doctor had taken leave of the chateau and did not plan to return unless Sherlock took a turn.

He had no intention of taking any turn at all unless it would lead him back to Paris where he assumed John was. It was only an assumption, because no one was telling him anything.

If he could have gotten to his feet, he would have run all the way back to the city to find John himself. But his spine was badly bruised and his leg still encased in a heavy plaster cast, so he could do nothing but shout and throw things while he waited for his bastard of a brother to come and tell him what was going on.

Unfortunately, Mycroft had vanished the day before with no word about where he was going or when he might return. It didn’t matter.

Before his departure, Mycroft had brought two glasses of port into the bedroom and sat down next to the bed. “We need to talk,” he said.

“Yes. Tell me about John.”

“In good time. But first…Sherlock, you need to help us shut down the organization Moriarty left behind.”

“That is not my responsibility,” he snapped.

“Our reports indicate that Moran wants not only to take over the reins, but to exact revenge on you.”

Sherlock snorted.

“He knows how to get to you, just as Moriarty did.”

Neither of them mentioned John’s name.

Mycroft sipped port and gave an appreciative nod. “I think I have a solution.”

“Yes?” Sherlock was suspicious. He swallowed port without really tasting it, hoping it would dull the edge of pain that was always with him now.

And then Mycroft began to explain his so-called solution. It was insane, of course, the way his brother’s ideas always were. Essentially, Mycroft was insisting that the world had to believe that Sherlock Holmes had died after that plunge through the window. That would allow him to move in the shadows and work to eliminate the spider’s web of Moriarty’s criminal organisation. Sherlock argued that there had to be another way, but the trump card was, inevitably, John’s safety.

At this moment, with his brother still amongst the missing and his own body still useless, Sherlock decided that he had to do something or lose his mind completely. He wheedled the maid into bringing him pen and paper, bullied the handyman into helping him to move from the bed to a chair by the window [which was much more painful than he had anticipated and which left him sweating and tight-lipped] and began a letter to John. At the very least, he could explain what was going on. The world could believe that Sherlock Holmes was dead, but John had to know the truth.

It took him all afternoon and several tightly written pages to relate the tale to John. The letter explained what he had to do and why he had to do it secretly and alone. Hopefully, it would not take very long and then he could return to John. Sherlock did not allow himself to think that perhaps this would all be too much for the other man to understand. To accept. John would be angry; Sherlock knew that. He would be hurt. But he had to understand. To forgive.

Finally, Sherlock finished the letter, signing off with words that he hoped would convince John of his unending love. He folded the pages and slid them into an envelope.

Now he just needed Mycroft to turn up so that he could give the letter to him for delivery to John.  
*  
It was almost like some kind of recurring nightmare.

Opening his eyes and seeing Mycroft Holmes standing at the foot of his bed yet again made John want to close his eyes immediately. But instead he just glared at him. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice a little rough from lack of use. He didn’t talk much these days, because there was no point, and also because he was afraid every time he opened his mouth that all that would emerge was a keening of Sherlock’s name.

“Your doctor says that you are ready to be released from hospital,” Mycroft said, not deigning to explain why he had any access at all to John’s medical records. “I have made arrangements for you to be flown back to London on Wednesday.”

John shifted a little in the bed. “Do I want to go back to London?” It almost sounded like a genuine question.

“Do you want to stay in Paris?” Mycroft countered.

John thought about it for a moment. He could not imagine walking into the studio. Or into any of the little cafes they frequented. Even just walking the familiar neighbourhoods seemed impossible. At least if he were in London, the ghost would only be in his own mind, not everywhere else he looked. He conceded Mycroft’s point with a shrug.

Mycroft removed a brown file folder from his attache case and handed it to him. “The details of your travel are all in here. As well as the address of a flat where you are expected.”

A flat. John did close his eyes then, just briefly, remembering the discussion they’d had about moving to London and Sherlock’s excitement over what he’d called the ‘perfect place’ for them to live. “He…Sherlock mentioned a place,” he whispered.

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, I know. 221B Baker Street, with Mrs. Hudson. That is where you are going.”

John didn’t know how he felt about that. Could he actually live alone in the place where Sherlock had intended them to be together?

Mycroft took a step closer. “This is what Sherlock would want,” he said.

A part of John wanted to shout at Mycroft that he had no idea what Sherlock would or wouldn’t want. But, abruptly, he lacked the energy to care. What did it matter where he lived when essentially his life was over anyway? So he just nodded and after a pause, Mycroft turned and left the room.

John set the file folder aside and let himself slip into the darkness again.

*

It was the middle of the night by the time Mycroft finally stepped into Sherlock’s room, waking him from a drugged sleep. He hated the sleeping pills, but the doctor insisted that rest was essential to his healing. But they left his mind foggy and his tongue thick. “Where the hell have you been?” he finally managed to say.

“On business,” Mycroft said crisply.

Sherlock didn’t care. He reached under the pillow and pulled out the letter. “This is important,” he said. “You must get this to John. He has to understand what is happening.”

After a hesitation so fleeting that no one else would have noticed it, Mycroft took the envelope, slipping it into his pocket.

“Get it to him quickly,” Sherlock admonished. “I don’t want him worry.”

“I will deliver your letter as soon as possible,” Mycroft said carefully.

Sherlock nodded, then settled down to sleep some more.

He barely heard the door open and then close again as Mycroft left

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Thirty-One: A Trifle Past


	31. A Trifle Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is in London now, but life is no better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting very close to the end now and I cannot say how much I appreciate those of you who have come alone on this journey.
> 
> In a bit, I am off to hear a talk by the curator of the Holmes exhibition at the Museum of London.
> 
> [Just as a note, I am having a problem with getting this formatted properly today. Hopefully it will come out okay!]

The dying is a trifle, past,  
But living, this include the dying  
Manifold---without the respite to  
Be dead.  
-Emily Dickinson

Michael Stamford had apparently given up any hope of John actually meeting him for lunch or drinks or bloody afternoon tea, because one morning he simply turned up at 221B.  


They had talked only a handful of times in the year that had passed since John’s return to London and none of those conversations had gone especially well.  


Mrs. Hudson, who was always pleased when anyone came calling, showed Michael up the stairs, chattering away about the lovely weather and how nice it was for a friend of John’s to come round. John knew she worried about him, in a maternal sort of way, although he assumed she cared mostly because of her affection for Sherlock. Or Sherlock’s memory, he amended.  


After a quick knock on the half-opened door, Mrs. Hudson came in. “A visitor,” she announced cheerfully.  


“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” John said automatically.  


She departed in a flurry and Michael stepped in. “If Mohamed won’t come to the mountain,” he said.  


“Cliches, Michael?” John’s tone was mild. It would be nice if this time they didn’t finish the conversation irritated with one another. Well, he would do his part.  


Michael dropped into the chair opposite the desk. He looked tense and no less plump than the last time they’d met. “How are you, John?”  


That was one of the reasons John preferred to avoid people these days. How are you, John? It was always the first thing anyone asked. He knew very well what everyone wanted him to say. They wanted him to say that he was better, moving on, facing the future.  


No one wanted to hear that he was none of those things.  


Michael took a moment to light a cigarette; John assumed he wanted the moment more than the Player. “The last time we spoke,” he began carefully, “you seemed quite set on writing a book about Mr. Holmes.”  


John nodded and indicated the stack of paper next to his typewriter.  


Michael eyed the manuscript.  


John sighed. “He led an interesting life.”  


“And you were…an intimate part of that life,” Michael pointed out gently.  


“Which makes me highly qualified to write the book then.” John was already tired of the conversation.  


“There could be legal ramifications.”  


John gave a snort. Then he rested a hand on the pile of typed pages. “I’m not doing a biography, Michael. It’s a novel of post-war Paris.”  


“But with a character based on Holmes.”  


John’s jaw set.  


“People will know,” Michael pressed.  


“I want them to. I don’t want him forgotten.” John’s voice had turned hoarse.  


They sat in silence for a few moments. Finally Michael sighed. “Will you send me some pages?” he asked.  


“Yes,” John said.  


Michael stood and walked to the door, then paused. “John, how are you, really?”  


There was something in his voice that recalled their days in the trenches and John met his gaze. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “Not actually very well, I don’t think.”  


Michael nodded, as if the words did not surprise him at all. “Take care, my friend,” he said.  


“I’m trying,” was the best he could say.  


Once Michael was gone, John stood up from the desk. He went to the window and watched as the rotund man climbed into a taxi. John leant his forehead against the glass and wondered how much longer he could go on.  


*  


Sometimes Sherlock felt as if he were engaged in some perverted version of the Victorian Grand Tour. One day, while stuck in a rundown hotel in Berlin, he drew a map of the world and added a little star to mark everyplace he had been over the past year. There were a lot of stars, so many that he grew weary just looking at them  


No one had known the full extent of Moriarty’s spider web of crime. Well, possibly Mycroft had known or suspected, but, if so, he did not share that knowledge with Sherlock. Three months, maybe, Sherlock had thought in the beginning, and then he could go back to his real life.  


Back to John.  


There had been no contact between them since the letter Sherlock had sent him back at the beginning of this whole insane adventure. Mycroft always insisted that any further attempt to be in touch could prove deadly to one or both of them, but he assured Sherlock that he was updating John regularly on the situation. There was always a hint of disdain in his voice when he talked about it.  


But three months passed. Then six. Now it was a year later and he was sitting in yet another rundown hotel, this one in Cairo.  


He assumed that Mycroft knew that certain of his previous bad habits had reappeared, but neither of them mentioned it during their strained and frequently static-filled telephone calls. Every time they spoke, he asked after John, of course. Mycroft always sighed dramatically, as if the entire topic were simply too boring to be tolerated.  


“Watson is fine,” was what always he said.  


Sherlock knew that John was living at Baker Street and apparently writing, but beyond that Mycroft gave him little information. It had been so long and there were so many nights that Sherlock had spent alone in shabby rooms, not knowing what the next day would bring. At times like that, he frequently found himself wondering. What if John had grown tired of waiting? Might he move on to someone less…dangerous? Less complicated? Less of everything?  


It was a tormenting thought, imagining John with someone else.  


Those were the times he most often reached for the needle.  


On this particular night in Cairo, Sherlock huddled in the tiny telephone kiosk just off the hotel lobby and waited as the operator put through the call to London.  


“Brother mine,” Mycroft drawled when the connection was finally made.  


“I delivered the information to your contact at the embassy,” Sherlock said, skipping the preliminaries.  


“I was informed, yes. Well done.”  


Sherlock was trying not to inhale the odors of previous users of the tiny kiosk. “Done being the operative word,” he said flatly.  


Mycroft was quiet for a moment.  


“This was the last connection,” Sherlock insisted, going on the offensive. He did try not to sound desperate.  


“Save Moran,” Mycroft pointed out. “The most dangerous of all.”  


“He’s in London,” Sherlock said flatly.  


Even though Mycroft said nothing, surprise radiated down the line from London to Cairo.  


Sherlock lit a cigarette and waited.  


“As it happens, you are correct,” Mycroft finally said. “I was going to inform you of that fact.”  


Maybe, Sherlock thought. “Is John safe?”  


“For the moment. Moran obviously still believes that you are dead.”  


“I’m coming home.” Sherlock exhaled and watched the grey smoke spiral upwards towards the already smoke-stained ceiling of the kiosk.  


“Yes, I suppose you might as well.”  


They each hung on the line, but there was only silence.  


“You must neutralise Moran first,” Mycroft finally said.  


Before reuniting with John was what he meant, of course. Sherlock dropped the cigarette and crushed it out on the scarred and burned wooden floor. At least I’ll be in the same city, was what he thought, imagining what Mycroft would think of such blatant sentiment, should he be foolish enough to say it aloud. Which, of course, he was not.  


“I will have a plan in place by the time you return,” Mycroft said.  


“Fine,” was all Sherlock said before hanging up.  


He went back to his room and curled on the lumpy mattress, thinking of John, of the expression that would be on John’s face when Sherlock appeared at Baker Street.  


For John, he left the needle in its case that night.  


*  


Mrs. Hudson brought up a plate containing a sandwich and some biscuits and then she made him a cup of tea. John let her chatter at him as she worked, but his attention was still on the words he was putting on paper. Finally she set the lunch on the desk. “How is the book coming on?” she asked; it was what she always asked.  


“Fine, thank you,” he replied. Knowing that the only way he would be left in peace was to eat the sandwich and drink the tea, he pushed away from the typewriter.  


She looked pleased as he took a bite of the gammon on thick granary bread. “It’s a lovely day, John. Maybe you should take a little walk after lunch. Some fresh air would perk you right up.”  


She was always trying to perk him up and John appreciated it, he really did, but it was a lost cause. The book was almost done and then he had to do some serious thinking about his life. Occasionally, he opened the bottom drawer of the desk and looked at his old military pistol. It seemed to be waiting for him.  


John knew that he shouldn’t even be considering picking the gun up and sticking it in his mouth. It was so very wrong.  
But it was still not as wrong as waking up every morning with his whole being aching from the loss of Sherlock. He knew that people were supposed to heal after bereavement; that’s what happened. Someone you loved died and you grieved and time passed and slowly, each day, the pain lessened its grip on you, never vanishing completely because the love was always there. But you learned to cope.  


Except that none of those things seemed to apply to losing Sherlock Holmes. John didn’t think that if he gave himself fifty years he would ever stop hurting.  


And he did not want to spend fifty years in this pain.  


So he ate the sandwich, drank the tea, even nibbled at a biscuit as Mrs. Hudson nattered on. Occasionally he nodded or made an appropriate response, as he tried not to think of the pistol sitting in the drawer.  


It was only a few minutes after Mrs. Hudson finally went back downstairs to her own flat that John was vaguely aware of the doorbell ringing. He ignored it as he always did, because no one really came to see him anymore. Even Michael kept away and just waited for the pages John sent over each week, to prove that he was still working.  


Or maybe to prove that he was still alive, because he knew that Michael Stamford had recognised the look in John’s eyes the last time they’d had a drink together.  


But it was definitely not Michael’s voice he heard down in the front hall.  


“John,” Mrs. Hudson called. “You have a visitor.”  


With a sigh, he stood and went to the door. It was definitely a surprise to see Irene Adler climbing the stairs towards him. He had not seen or been in touch with her since the day she visited him in hospital in Paris.  


Frankly, he had not really even thought about her.  


“Irene,” he said.  


She smiled up at him. John turned and went back into the room, followed by Irene.  


“What are you doing here?” He hoped it didn’t sound rude.  


“Sally and I are in London for a couple of days, so I just wanted to come by and see how you are getting on.”  


“I’m fine,” he said, as always. He wanted to thank her for not inflicting Sally on him, but then decided that went as a given.  


“Hmm,” she said, eyeing him. “Hope you don’t mind me saying, but you look like hell.”  


He shrugged.  


Irene had not changed over the last year. She took charge, insisting that it was a nice day outside, that she had not been in London for a long time, and that she wanted to walk around. John protested, but finally it was easier to give in, pull his jacket on and follow her down the stairs.  


Other than an occasional trip down to the shops when absolutely necessary, there was only one place John ever really walked to. And so he took her to the cemetery. It was a route he could have followed in his sleep, although going on a sunny warm day was rare. Most often, it was rain and fog that drove him to visit the grave.  


Irene stood in front of the black marble headstone, with its gold lettering, and watched as John used his linen handkerchief to wipe dust away. His hand lingered on top of the headstone.  


“He loved you,” Irene said quietly. “You were the only person Sherlock Holmes ever loved.”  


“I know,” John replied. “He was the best man, the most human…human I ever met.”  


“So hard to believe he’s dead,” Irene said. “He was so…alive.”  


John was scarcely even aware that he was talking to her. “Every time I come here I ask for a miracle. For him to come back. To not be dead.” Then his voice hardened. “There are no miracles, I’ve realised.”  


Irene stepped forward and looked as if she were going to put her hand on the headstone. Something in John’s face must have made her pull back. Instead she leaned closer and kissed his cheek. “Lovely to see you, John. But I must be off. You take your time.”  


He watched her walk away and then sat on the grass. “Just one miracle,” he said. “Just for me. Please, Sherlock? Don’t be dead.”  


*  


Coming back to London had not made things easier.  


It was so hard knowing that John was only a couple of kilometers away and yet being told that he could not go to him. Could not see him. Not that he hadn't tried. He’d actually made it as far as the front stoop before two large gentlemen appeared, each taking an arm, and guided him back inside.  


Mycroft issued daily warnings about even trying, pointing out that it would be rather foolish to put John at risk now, after everything he had gone through to keep him safe.  


That was probably correct, but it didn’t stop Sherlock from wanting. Wanting so much that it hurt.  


The plan was almost in place, Mycroft kept assuring him; he only had to be patient a little longer.  


Sherlock chafed and substituted brandy for cocaine. He stood at the window and stared out over the dark city, imagining that he could just leave this place and run through the nighttime streets until he could throw himself into John’s arms.  


John knew how to soothe the jagged edges.  


Sherlock lifted a hand and rested it against the glass of the window. “John,” he said softly.  


**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Thirty-two: More Than Love


	32. More Than Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone gets punched in the nose. But it's all good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cannot believe we have reached this point.  
> Tomorrow is the end.

We loved with a love that  
Was more than love.  
-Edgar Allan Poe

His brother kept putting him off and Sherlock was tired of it. It was no secret where Moran was, but apparently the bloody British government ran on its own schedule. What, he kept demanding of Mycroft, was going to keep Moran from going after John while the collective idiocy of so-called experts sat around with their thumbs up their arses? His brother kept saying that they needed to verify that Moran really was the last strand of the web. That would be followed up with vague murmurings of connections to various shady governments, namely the Germans and Italians. Sherlock did not care and said so. In German, Italian, and just to make the point clear, Mandarin.  


Then Mycroft would murmur phrases of nothingness that were apparently supposed to be reassuring.  


Sherlock was not reassured.  


His entire body was an edgy bundle of nervous energy. He wanted to see John more than he wanted to take another breath. What was the point of breathing, anyway, if John were not there to swallow each exhalation with a kiss? Mycroft persisted in warning him that any attempt at all to contact his lover or even just to watch him from a distance might well sign his death warrant.  


Sometimes, when Mycroft went on like that, Sherlock wanted to sign his death warrant.  


But, instead, he was reduced to doing nothing more than wandering the corridors of Mycroft’s massive house, trying to figure out just what his bloody brother was up to. Tonight, he decided, was it. He would let it be known that this period of purgatory was ending.

This particular day he had decided to devote himself to deducing the location of Mycroft’s hidden safe. Not that he had any real interest in the contents of said safe, but just because it was another way to annoy his brother. As he went from one room to another, he thought of everything he knew about Mycroft and where he would conceal something important.

In less than an hour, he found himself standing in front of one of his own paintings, one his mother had claimed for the family collection, and which she had then apparently let Mycroft hang in his second-best guest room. He had no idea why Mycroft had wanted this particular work, as he had never even especially liked the dog. Sherlock reached out and rested his index finger on the setter’s head. “Good boy, Redbeard,” he whispered, blinking away the unwanted moisture that threatened to spill into actual tears.  


Why did he have to lose everything he loved?  


Then he determinedly pushed away the mood. John was not lost to him. They were only apart. And soon, so soon, they would be together again and he would never let them be parted again, not if the whole world exploded in fire and blood.  
After a moment, he carefully removed the painting from the wall and propped it against the bed. As he had known it would be, the safe was there. He allowed himself a small, victorious smile. It took only a few more minutes and two failed attempts before the door of the safe swung open.  


The contents were very much as he had expected. Family legal papers. A sizable collection of gold coins. A ledger book that was written in some kind of code that Sherlock did not care enough about to decipher. He decided to rearrange everything just enough so that Mycroft would know that he had been inside.  


When he first saw the envelope, he realised only that his own handwriting was on the front.  


To John.  


To John.  


With a hand that was suddenly shaking visibly, Sherlock reached in and picked up the envelope.  


He knew what it was, of course, but he still slid the papers inside out carefully, and then he sat down on the bed.  


//My dearest John,  
Forgive me, please, for this. I will try to explain what is happening.//

He could not read anymore. Suddenly everything was painfully, horribly clear. He finally understood completely the real scheme that had been carried out over the past year.  


He turned to the last page, the last lines.  


//I love you, John, and will come back to you as soon as I can. Be safe, believe in me, please…please. I love you.//  


Sherlock dropped the pages onto the bed. Had Mycroft been standing in front of him at that moment, he would have killed his brother without a second thought. If the letter had never been delivered, if the reassurances that Mycroft had insisted he’d given John regularly had not been given, it could only mean that John thought he was dead.  


John thought he had been dead for a year.  


Time enough to grieve and move on. Time enough to rebuild his life.  


Then he thought about what would have happened had the situation been reversed.  


Time enough to refuse to go on with a life that was meaningless.  


With no warning, Sherlock bent over and vomited on the priceless Persian rug. After a few moments, he straightened. Leaving the letter on top of the silk quilt, he went down the corridor to the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face and rinsed his mouth carefully.  


He made one more stop, in the bedroom he’d been using [with a mediocre French impressionist painting hung on the wall instead of a portrait of the dog he had loved], and took the gun he had carried for the last year from its case.  


There was only one sentry on duty today. Sherlock opened the front door and the man straightened. “Sir?” he said politely.  


“I think someone has come over the wall of the back garden,” Sherlock said urgently.  


The man followed him through the empty kitchen and to the rear door. “Over there,” Sherlock told him, pointing towards the farthest corner of the garden. The man bent slightly to peer into the shaded gloom. Sherlock’s gun smashed into the sentry’s temple before he had any idea what was happening. He dropped heavily to the floor.  


A moment later, Sherlock was out on the road, lifting his arm to summon a cab.  


He ordered the taxi to drop him at the northwest corner of Cavendish Square. Very aware of the pistol in his pocket, he walked from Wigmore Street to Wimpole, then made a right onto Queen Anne Street. He knew London so well that he didn’t even have to think about it. Welbeck. Bentinck Street. Marylebone Lane to Thayer. Blandford to Manchester to Kendall Place. At last, he came to a stop behind the empty house where Moran was supposed to be.  


Sherlock had long ago perfected the ability to move soundlessly when necessary. Sneaking out of the house as a child. Maneuvering in and out of places he had no business being when getting caught would have meant a firing squad. So he had no problem climbing silently to the first floor of the slightly rundown vacant building opposite the Baker Street flat where John was living. Where he was living, at least, if anything at all Mycroft had said could be believed.  


But that was not important now. Moran had to die, in any case, and once that was done he would deal with everything else.  


The door to the room he had deduced Moran would be in was slightly opened to the corridor. At first, he thought that someone was in there with him, because he could hear low muttering. But once he was in position to peer into the room, he could see that Moran was alone, sitting on the floor by the window, a sniper rifle propped against the sill. And apparently talking to himself.  


“You’re a boring son of a bitch, Watson. All you do is bend over that stupid typewriter, day in and day out.”  


Sherlock felt a sense of relief flood his entire being. John was alive. Nothing else mattered.  


“Two more days,” Moran was saying. “If that bastard Holmes doesn’t show up in the next two days, I’m just going to shoot you anyway. If he’s still alive, maybe your funeral will flush him out.”  


Sherlock carefully slid the pistol from his pocket. It was tempting to let Moran see him, to let him realise exactly who was killing him. But this was not the time for games. He was in no mood to delay the inevitable. So he simply raised the gun and fired.  


Moran sprawled forward, the back of his head a bloody mess.  


Sherlock slid to the floor. It was over, really over, and John was just across the street.  


Before he could move or decide on his next step, however, several very large men pounded up the rear staircase and burst into the room. Mycroft was not with them, but it was obvious that they were his minions. Abruptly, a black bag was pulled over his head and he was hoisted up. There was no sense in struggling, so Sherlock just let himself be bundled down the stairs and shoved into the backseat of a car. He knew where they were going.  


Once there, they removed the bag and let him walk back into the house on his own.  


Mycroft was waiting in the library. The letter to John was open on the table in front of him.  


Sherlock managed not to strangle him at first sight. Just barely. Instead, he poured himself a large whisky and sat down opposite his brother. He would not speak first.  


Mycroft’s hands were folded on top of the table, but his apparently calm demeanor was belied by the pale colour of his knuckles. He took a deep breath. “What you have to understand, Sherlock,” he began, “is that I was trying to do the best that I could for you. And for the entire operation.”  


“By letting the man I love think I was dead?” Some might have thought that Sherlock’s voice was mild. Mycroft was not amongst that group. “By letting the man who loves me grieve for a year?”  


Mycroft gave a sharp nod. “Exactly. His grief had to be real. It was an essential part of the plan. Had anyone within Moriarty’s organisation suspected that you were alive neither of you would have been safe. The display of Watson’s genuine mourning was necessary. His was a vital role in everything that has happened.”  


“He might have killed himself,” Sherlock said. “He might have met someone else and---” He broke off, not having meant to say that aloud.  


Mycroft almost smiled. “Neither of those eventualities occurred, however.” He seemed to have recovered some of his usual calmness. “Sherlock, Watson is writing a book about you. He would never have killed himself until that was finished. There are still several chapters to go, so---“  


Sherlock threw the whisky glass at his head, but Mycroft managed to dodge it just in time and the glass shattered on the stone façade of the fireplace.  


“I am sorry,” he said, wiping at some whisky that had landed on his face as the glass flew by. “Hopefully, in time, you will realise that my way was for the best.”  


“Hopefully, in time, I will manage to forget that I ever had a brother,” Sherlock spit out viciously.  


Mycroft did not seem especially bothered by that. “Would you rather continue to rant at me or decide where we go from here?”  


“I am going to Baker Street.”  


“And do what? Just burst in and say ‘surprise!’ as if it were all some sort of schoolboy prank?”  


Sherlock chewed at his lower lip for a moment.  


“I think it would be best if I made the first approach. Watson is a sensible man and once everything is explained, I am convinced that he will understand. Then you can have what is sure to be a most touching reunion.”  


“John might well shoot you,” Sherlock said pleasantly. “And you can rest in peace knowing that I will help him hide the body.”  


“Very droll. My sources tell me that Watson left the flat a few minutes after you were evacuated from the building across the road. I intend to have some tea and you are welcome to join me and then we shall depart for Baker Street and await his return.”  


“I don’t want any of your fucking tea,” Sherlock said. “I am going to pack so that I will never have to come back to this place.”  


“As you wish,” Mycroft said breezily.  


Sherlock reached for the letter on the desk.  


Mycroft pulled it away. “It might help if I have this to give him.”  


After a moment, Sherlock just nodded and left the library.  


*  


John deliberately waited until the exhibition had been on public view for a fortnight, letting the eager [if not morbid] interest in seeing the work of the deceased artist fade just a bit before he went to the Royal Academy. Lestrade had been told that he was coming and the other man greeted him with a quiet word and a handshake. He took him to the otherwise empty gallery and then left him to wander on his own, only joining him again after John had circled the room twice, looking at the landscapes and views of London. His tour ended where it had begun, in front of a self-portrait that he had never seen before.  
Sherlock had painted himself, oddly, standing in the middle of an apiary, surrounded by tidy hives and an erst of bees. He wore a loosely fitted white shirt, a yellow waistcoat, and black trousers. John recognised the expression on his face, a sort of contentment that he had only seen before when they were together in the aftermath of their lovemaking.  


The painting made him hurt so much that he could not respond when Lestrade spoke, was not even sure what he’d said, until the man touched his arm. Then he jerked himself back to the moment. “What?” he said.  


“This is one of the paintings that now belongs to you,” Lestrade said. “It will be delivered to you at the end of the exhibition.”  


There was no response that he could make to that.  


Instead, he said, “This is the kind of work he was going to be doing, once we returned to London. No more of those portraits. That was his plan.”  


“I didn't know,” Lestrade said. “That would have been good.”  


John just shook Lestrade’s hand again and left the building.  


*  


It was a very long walk back to Baker Street, but John scarcely noticed the distance. He could think about nothing but the self-portrait Sherlock had done. It did not seem possible that his heart could break anymore than it had when he’d learned of Sherlock’s death, but apparently there was an unlimited capacity for that treacherous organ to shatter.  


It had been a mistake to go to the exhibition, he knew that now.  


Of course, everything he did these days seemed wrong. Seemed pointless. He hated himself for the weakness, because John had never considered himself to be a coward. But a coward he was, apparently, because he did not think that he could carry on this way much longer.  


Not long ago he had received a letter from a man he’d served with in the trenches. Apparently, Anderson remembered him much better than he remembered Anderson and more fondly. All he could recall was a slightly rat-faced fellow who worked much too hard to ingratiate himself with the upper ranks and who could never be found when an actual job needed to be done. Still, John never blamed anyone for how they responded to the hell that had been life in the field.  


Most of the letter was inconsequential and John doubted that he would ever have received it if not for his public notoriety, both as an author and through his connection to the mysterious death of a famous artist. Anderson nattered on about one thing or another and it wasn’t until the final paragraph that he wrote, almost as an after-thought about Dimmock, another member of their unit, a young man who tried hard but never seemed to quite succeed.  


//Have you heard about Dimmock? Seems he couldn’t settle himself after the war and last week he blew his brains out.//  


John stopped reading at that point and threw the letter into the fireplace.  


It must have meant something that his first thought was ‘lucky Dimmock, his pain is over.’ It must have meant something.  


He turned his thoughts to getting back to the flat, making himself a cuppa, relaxing in the sitting room. John had come to love the cozy flat and had even come around to the fact that Mycroft had one day unexpectedly delivered a truckfull of Sherlock’s belongings. The excuse was that no one else wanted them and surely John did not want all of it to end up at a bring-and-buy.  


It was doubtful that Sherlock’s Stradivarius would have suffered any such fate, but some of his other things might have, so John did not argue. Having so many of Sherlock’s possessions cluttering up the place soothed him slightly, made it easier to imagine that Sherlock was there, sharing the space just as they had planned.  


They would have been happy there, he knew.  


Mrs. Hudson was just on her way out somewhere and greeted him with the usual cheerful smile.  


John saw her off and then trudged up the steps to the flat. He was just taking the kettle off the hob, when he heard the familiar tapping of a brolly against the stairs and a moment later Mycroft’s voice. “Hello, Mr. Watson,” he said.  


It was not often he came round and John was never inclined to make him feel welcome. “Holmes,” he said. He finished making his tea, knowing that it was petty not to offer a cup even to an uninvited guest, but not especially caring.  


By the time he walked into the sitting room, Mycroft was sitting in the chair that John always fancied as Sherlock’s, imagining his elegant frame sprawled in the black leather and shiny metal frame. It pleased John to notice that Mycroft did not look elegant.  


In fact, as he took a closer look, the older man looked distinctly unsettled and that was so far from his natural state that John was almost curious about why he was there. “Is there something I can do for you?” he asked after taking a sip of the tea, then setting the cup down.  


Mycroft hesitated and then seemed to gather himself. “John, there is something I must tell you and I’m afraid you need to prepare yourself for something of a shock.”  


“I am not easily shocked,” John remarked. “Not anymore.”  


After another moment, Mycroft reached into his pocket and pulled out some papers. “Perhaps it would be better if you read this. It is a letter that was intended to be delivered to you a year ago.”  


John did not reach for the letter. “And why was it not, in that case?”  


“It was a decision that I made, albeit not without many reservations. Believe me when I say that every decision I have made was intended for the best.”  


“The best for whom?” John asked skeptically, wishing that he knew what the hell they were talking about.  


“Read the damned letter,” Mycroft said and John was pleased that he seemed to have ruffled the ever-placid demeanor of the man.  


He held out a hand and Mycroft put the pages there.  


He recognised the handwriting immediately, of course, and his chest clenched. This delivery had been meant to happen a year ago? Was this some kind of farewell note from Sherlock? Mycroft gave an impatient sigh and John began to read.  


//My dearest John,  
Forgive me, please, for this. I will try to explain what is happening.  
Everything that has come to pass is really my fault, for being willing to play a dangerous game with a madman like Moriarty. Mummy always said that my desperate attempts to avoid boredom would be my downfall and it seems she was all too right.  
Moriarty has a vast criminal empire and Mycroft is convinced that neither you nor I will be safe unless and until it is eradicated. To accomplish this, his idiotic minions need my help and he believes that the best way for it to happen is if the world thinks I am dead. But I cannot do that to you, my love, hence this letter.//

John stopped reading. He stopped breathing. As far as he could tell, the earth stopped circling the sun. It took a century or so for him to remember how to speak. “Sherlock…wrote this a year ago? And he has been pretending to be dead this entire time?”  


Mycroft nodded. “Yes, it seemed the most expedient way for things to proceed.”  


“Expedient? What the fuck are you saying, Holmes?”  


“My brother has spent the last months helping me to dismantle a dangerous organisation that threatened the entire world.” Mycroft actually smiled at him. “I am happy to report that, as of some hours ago, the last piece of the enterprise has been…eliminated.”  


John was still wondering when all the oxygen had vanished from the room. After a moment, he started to read the rest of the letter, which detailed everything Sherlock thought that he would have to do before he could come back. Apparently, he thought that it would take a few months. He begged John to forgive him, to believe in him, to wait for him. After reading the final words, John carefully folded the pages and set them on the table. “Does Sherlock know that this letter was never delivered?” His voice was low, but obviously Mycroft heard the deadly edge to the words.  


“Yes. Now he does. He was…distressed to find out the truth.”  


“Where is he?” John asked in the same dangerous tone.  


“Downstairs. I thought it would be best---”  


Mycroft did not have the chance to finish the sentence. John moved too quickly, crossing the space between them, then raising his fist and smashing it into the other man’s face. Blood gushed out, but John ignored that. Instead, he turned and ran from the room and then down the stairs.  


He flung the door open and found Sherlock standing on the pavement. It was like every dream he’d had over the past year. John took only a moment to see that Sherlock looked too thin, too pale, and terribly frightened, before throwing both arms around him and holding on as if the embrace were all that could keep him from drowning. Probably it was.  


He felt two skinny arms go around him at the same time. They stood there like that for an endless time. Finally, John realised that they were attracting far too much attention from passersby and he dragged Sherlock across the threshold, slamming the door.  


“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said in a broken voice. “Sorrysorrysorry.”  


“Hush,” John said. “It’s not your fault.”  


Finally Sherlock lifted his eyes and met John’s gaze. “I’m home,” he said “At last, I am home.”  


Before they could make a move towards the stairs, Mycroft appeared, a handkerchief pressed against his bloody face. No one spoke as he edged by and left.  


John felt himself slip into Sherlock’s gaze and it was then that the tears came.  


*  


It was hours later and they were lying tangled together in the bed that had previously contained only John. Sherlock had talked for far too long, until his voice started to get raspy. John made him some tea and added honey to soothe his throat. Sherlock had smiled faintly as John set the cup in front of him.  


Soon after that, John led him into the bedroom. “You look exhausted,” he said.  


Sherlock rested his head against John’s shoulder. “Doesn’t matter.”  


“Of course it matters, you idiot.”  


John gently pushed him down onto the bed and pulled off the jacket, followed by a garnet waistcoat. Then he carefully began to unbutton the dark blue shirt. “I missed you so much,” he said in a soft voice. “I missed waking up with you wrapped around me, bare skin to bare skin.” His fingers moved slowly, caressing as they continued unbuttoning. “I missed sitting across the breakfast table trying to get you to eat a little toast.” He bent and nuzzled at Sherlock’s neck. “I missed watching you work. The passion that you put onto the canvas when you are painting something that matters to you. The expression on your face when you succeed.” He paused for a moment, thoughtful. “I wonder what you look like when you fail.”  


“This,” Sherlock said. His fingers were gliding through John’s hair. “I failed a year ago. I failed so many times over the past months. I failed you."  


“Shush,” John said. He tugged carefully until the shirt was off and then tossed it to the floor. Then he started to unfasten Sherlock’s trousers. “I missed walking with you, listening to you deduce the people we passed. I wanted to walk like that through London with you. Can we do that, Sherlock?”  


Sherlock nodded.  


John worked the trousers down Sherlock’s endless legs, paused to untie and slip off the shoes and stockings, until Sherlock wore only his silk undershorts. Instead of taking them off, however, he bent over and put his mouth over the thin silk that covered Sherlock’s cock.  


Sherlock gasped.  


“I missed kissing you, the way our tongues would meet and tangle. I missed your taste. Your smell. The texture of your skin.” He let his breath caress Sherlock through the now-damp silk.  


Sherlock whimpered.  


At last, John placed his fingers in the waistband and pulled the shorts down and off. Sherlock’s cock was darkening, stiffening.  


“I missed the feel of you in my mouth,” John said and then he engulfed Sherlock, licking and sucking.  


Sherlock moaned and grasped at whatever part of John he could reach. John was ruthless in his lovemaking and very soon Sherlock came, making a sound that spoke of indecent pleasure. John worked him through the orgasm, swallowing and gentling. Then he rolled to the edge of the bed, stood, and ripped his own clothing off with no finesse, just desperation. As Sherlock still lay in a haze of satisfaction, John threw himself back into the bed and simply rutted against him. “I missed you, I missed you, I missed you so much,” he said, practically sobbing the words out.  


He came all over Sherlock’s thighs and then collapsed against him, giggling a bit. “That was rather like our first time,” he said. Then he spoke again, in a whisper. “Thank you for coming back to me. I begged you to, over and over again..”  


“I heard you,” Sherlock said. “Every time.” Then he wrapped himself around John and they fell asleep.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Chapter Thirty-three [Epilogue]: When Love Has Found Its Home


	33. Epilogue:  When Love Has Found Its Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 1945, at the end of another war, two men come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here is the end, folks. Thank you all so much for reading and commenting and letting me know that you enjoyed this story. I loved every minute of the months it took me to write and to know that so many others read and appreciated it means so much.
> 
> Hey, if nothing else, I was consistent in my posting, despite being abroad on holiday!  
> :-D

Never change when love has  
Found its home.  
-Sextus Propertius

May, 1945

After a rainy night, the morning had emerged as one of those rare treasures, a perfect English summer day. Such was the mood in the city that even the heat was lightly borne, as hordes of lovely girls filled the streets in flowing and colourful summer dresses. Where had all the beauties been hiding for the past five years? Babies were adorned in red and blue ribbons and even the dogs were decked in bunting.

The celebration felt like a village fete or a family picnic. Bells rang, firecrackers popped, and the planes that swooped over the city were welcomed with waves and cheers, not fear. 

John walked among the crowds for several hours, enjoying the euphoric mood, at one point wandering into the park, where he kicked a football around with a group of small, very noisy boys. He felt relaxed, but not content. Even the telephone call from Mycroft earlier, conveying the news that John had been impatiently awaiting, did not settle his nerves completely. 

Finally, he returned to Baker Street. The elderly Mrs. Hudson was still in the country with her even more elderly sister and John suspected that her absence might well be permanent. That realisation saddened him a bit, because their former landlady had played such an important part in their lives. The entire house belonged to them now, but they still intended to simply stay upstairs in their flat. John made himself a cup of tea, longing for the moment when he would once again be making two cups. It had been so long. As the evening finally began to creep over the city, he went out to the roof to watch the continuing festivities on Baker Street. Deliberately, he removed his watch and left it on the table, because otherwise he would have been checking it every thirty seconds. 

Sherlock was coming home. 

They had seen one another occasionally over the past five years, because that had been part of the deal made with Mycroft. He wanted, needed, Sherlock’s talents in espionage and Sherlock would not agree to help unless Mycroft assured that he would be able to see John. Of course, all three of them knew that it was also part of the penance the older man had been paying for years. Over time, John, and to a lesser extent, Sherlock had come to understand that Mycroft had sincerely believed he had been acting for the best during the time Sherlock was ‘dead’. They knew that he had been so very wrong, but by this time they questioned only his intelligence, not his motives. 

Which did not mean that the relationship was less fraught; they would never be close, but that was fine. And Mycroft had kept his word about arranging meetings between them. 

It had all been somewhat surreal, truthfully. One day he would be crawling across the sand with Montgomery’s forces, in pursuit of Rommel, and then from nowhere a government vehicle would appear and he would be driven to an airfield. A flight would take him to one of a handful of cities and when he arrived, Sherlock, sometimes blond, more often ginger, occasionally moustachioed which always made John laugh, would be waiting for him. The visits were never long, but they sustained both men. 

But, at last, the war in Europe was over and they would be together in London again. 

John finished his tea and set the cup aside as he leaned over to watch the scene below. The girls were still out and about, most of them hanging onto the arm of a soldier or sailor, some British and others American. They hugged and they kissed publicly in a way that before the war would have been scandalous, but tonight it didn’t seem to matter. 

Well, it didn’t matter for some. 

Victory in the war with the Nazis did not mean equal freedom for everyone. Much as he might want to throw his arms around Sherlock and kiss him silly in the middle of Piccadilly Circus, John knew that he could not. Would never be able to do so. That truth had the ability to make him bitter if he allowed himself to think about it for very long. 

So he stopped thinking about it. 

And then he rather stopped thinking about anything. A tall, slender figure with tousled hair, thankfully no longer ginger if still too short for John’s liking, was making his way quickly but elegantly through the crowd below. A moment later, he paused briefly and tipped his head back until their eyes met and held. It had been almost nine months since their last meeting, but now John could feel the vast emptiness in his core vanishing as the very truth of Sherlock’s presence rushed in to fill him. They stayed there in the gaze for far too long, until, finally, they both grinned. 

As Sherlock began to run, John turned around and watched the window. 

Only a few moments later, the curtain was pushed aside and Sherlock emerged. They just looked at one another for a full minute and then one or the other moved first and they were locked in a tight hug. “My love,” Sherlock whispered. John rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder and they stood silently in the embrace as, from somewhere in the city, more bells began tolling. 

* 

Sherlock listened to the slightly nasal sound of John's breathing as the other man slept, oblivious to the long fingers that continued to stroke his increasingly grey hair. Earlier, as they lay naked and curled together in their bed, his lover had teased gently about the scattered hints of silver in Sherlock's own curls. "We're getting old," John whispered.

At which point, Sherlock felt that he really had no choice save to roll over on top of John and prove to him that they were, neither of them, anything like old. He did so by kissing and licking and nibbling his way down John’s body, using his nimble fingers to emphasise his point. It did not take long for him to reduce John to a gibbering, damp mess. Sherlock raised his head and grinned at him. “Excuse me, Watson,” he said in a somewhat husky voice, “but this does not look remotely like the prick of an old man.” And then he engulfed the part in question.

When John had conceded the point and then returned the favour, they simply lay as they were on the bed as the still-warm breeze blew across their bodies, drying the sweat and cooling them. Sherlock talked about his journey from Berlin and John listened, inserting the occasional comment about his fortnight back in London. 

At last, as usual, John drifted into sleep first. 

Sherlock was so contented that he did not mind his own wakefulness. After a few minutes, he realised what he most wanted to do. Carefully, he eased himself away from John, from the bed. He went to the corner of the room where his leather satchel has been tossed earlier and opened it to remove his sketchpad and pencils. 

Returning to sit on the edge of the bed, he began to sketch John. As always, even when in the warm cocoon of love and passion and affection [which he recognised as being separate from love], Sherlock was honest in his art. He knew that the sketch would only be seen by the two of them. 

He drew what he saw: a middle-aged man, with lines in his face, a slight paunch where his flat belly had been, a certain slackness in the flesh. It was simply John he drew, the real man, not some romantic, idealised version. Sherlock recognised in his heart that there was love in every stroke of the pencil. 

When he decided that the sketch was complete, Sherlock signed it in his usual off-hand manner, before setting it aside carefully. And then he crawled back up the bed and wrapped himself around John once again, tucking his nose into the other man’s neck and breathing in deeply. The familiar scent let him know that he was truly home. 

John stirred a little, but did not wake, and at last Sherlock followed him into sleep. 

-Fini- 

I see my fated stars in your eyes. -Unknown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just want to add that if you liked this and have not checked out my other stories, why not do so? It occurred recently that I have written 20 more stories about these two than did the sainted ACD! There might be something else there you like.

**Author's Note:**

> Next, Chapter Two: In Secret Kept


End file.
